Table of Contents

Other books by Samanthe Beck
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Private Practice
Lover Undercover
Lovers Unmasked
Wilde for Her
Game for Trouble
Down the Aisle
Seducing Her Rival
Crash into Me

Other books by Samanthe Beck

Private Practice

Lover Undercover

Lovers Unmasked

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Samanthe Beck. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any
means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at

www.entangledpublishing.com

.

Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit

www.brazenbooks.com.

Edited by Heather Howland and Sue Winegardner
Cover design by Heather Howland
Photography by Jenn LeBlanc/Illustrated Romance

ISBN 978-1-62266-351-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition October 2013

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this
work of fiction: Ready-Teddy; Duracell; iPhone; Vicoprofen; Berber; Victoria’s Secret; MacGyver; Budweiser; Post-It; Boy Scouts of
America; Gatorade; Daisy Duke; Bad Romance; TicTac; Atlanta Braves; June Cleaver; Match; Depends; House Beautiful; Pyrex; Jeep
Cherokee; San Diego Padres; Washington Nationals; FiOS, Call Me Maybe; Psycho; Flying Dumbo; Disneyland; Nobel; Anaheim
Convention Center; Ikea; Barbie; Extended Stay Suites; Band Aid; Visa.

To my father, CPO Beck, U.S. Navy, Ret. Vet.

Chapter One

Did anything say, “Happy Birthday, Stud,” quite like black lace and handcuffs?

Chloe Kincaid eyed her reflection in the mirror at the foot of her bed and scooted into position

under the birthday banner she’d hung above her brass headboard.

The handcuff securing her right wrist to the headrail clattered as she moved. The trio of red candles

burning on her dresser and the muted light from the nightstand lamp gave the room a soft, golden glow

that made everything, including her, look unusually seductive. Bondage games weren’t really her

thing, but she had to admit her cuffed wrist looked positively wicked, as did the black lace bra and

thong she’d splurged on. Money was tight, but what the hell? One of San Clemente’s finest lifeguards

had shared his raciest fantasy with her, and he deserved a memorable birthday, right?

Still, something about the picture staring back at her in the mirror seemed…off. Too tidy, she

decided. With her free hand she pushed her comforter and sheet down so the bed appeared kind of

rumpled—as if maybe she’d already done some naughty things, all by herself.

Her hip came into contact with a lump under her comforter. She dug beneath the covers and

retrieved a light tan teddy bear.

“Sorry, RT,” she said to the plush, “Ready-Teddy” hide-a-vibe also known as her exclusive

bedmate during these past twelve months, “you’re on your own tonight.”

The bear’s glassy eyes stared into hers, full of censure.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s only one night. I promise. A quick, easy one-night stand with a cute

guy who thinks I have pretty eyes. Is that so wrong?” She stretched as far as she could and shoved the

bear under the bed.

Then she leaned back and considered the scene again in the mirror. Yes, rumpled sheets were

definitely a step in the right direction. She used her feet to kick the sheet and blanket all the way down

the bed, so they draped over the brass footrails and onto the floor. Nice.

Satisfied she had the stage properly set, she lifted one of the two flutes of champagne on her

nightstand and sipped, then frowned at the time on her bedside clock as she put the flute down. Her

perfect birthday surprise lacked one critical element. The birthday boy. Where the heck was—

The ring of the phone reverberated through her tiny, one-bedroom apartment. She considered

reaching for the handcuff key on her nightstand and untethering so she could rush out to the kitchen and

answer, but decided to go ahead and screen the call. In a few short moments her “Leave a message,”

message ended and the beep signaled the caller to speak.

“Hey, Chloe!” Troy’s voice blasted over the line, accompanied by a background soundtrack of

thumping club music and chatter. The noise corrupted the peace and quiet of her apartment like a frat

party. “Sorry, but I’m not gonna make it to your place tonight. Know how I thought the guys in the

Beach Services Program forgot about my birthday? I was wrong. They kidnapped me and dragged me

down to TJ and…fuck”—the sounds of laughter, catcalls, and cheers came over the line—“Oh God.

Poppers. Jesus.” There was a low groan, and then, “No more poppers. I swear, I’m gonna hurl all

over someone.” More cheers greeted that announcement. “Hey, Chlo, ’member how I told you I didn’t

think Mirasol Machado liked me ’cuz whenever we worked together she never gave me the time of

day? Well, check it…I think we just got married! Can you believe that shit? Holy crap, here comes the

chick with more tequila shots. These assholes aren’t gonna be happy ’til I puke my guts ou—”

The dial tone echoed over the line, followed by a click and then an abrupt, rushing silence.

Unbelievable. Chloe blinked at the girl in the mirror wearing sixty bucks worth of screw-me

underwear she didn’t need, and then grabbed her half-empty champagne flute from the nightstand and

downed the rest in one big gulp.

She won the prize for idiot of the year, going to all this trouble for a guy she’d been dating less than

two weeks. Spending money she couldn’t afford on decorations and lingerie to fool her conscience

into believing tonight’s festivities amounted to something more elaborate than a casual hookup. What

had she been thinking? Obviously, she hadn’t been thinking.

And now, surprise, surprise, he’d flaked. She would have expected this kind of behavior from any

of the US Marines she treated every day at the Camp Pendleton Massage Therapy Clinic, but Troy

wasn’t military, so she hadn’t seen it coming. Before her parents had split up and dumped her on her

grandma without a backward glance, she’d watched her military-to-the-core father put God and

country, and anything else the Army offered, ahead of his family. The experience had convinced her

never to get involved with a military man.

Now, apparently, she’d have to add lifeguard to the “Do Not Get Involved” list. But, eff-it, tonight

hadn’t been about getting involved. All she’d wanted was to have a little fun with a partner for a

change. Troy had seemed like a perfect candidate. Hell, he’d seemed like a party on two legs.

She put the empty flute down on the nightstand and, after a brief hesitation, picked up the second

flute and downed that one too. While she couldn’t beat the convenience and, well, infinite stamina the

Ready Teddy offered, an entire year was a long time to subsist solely on imagination and Duracell.

She was so bored with her own company, she could barely stand it. Her body ached to play a starring

role in someone else’s fantasies. RT simply couldn’t satisfy those cravings.

She put the flute back on the nightstand with a clunk. Marrying and divorcing before the age of

twenty-four had taught her a few timeless lessons about the hazards of getting tied down, but she’d

been more than ready to get tied-up for one night.

Then again, maybe Troy canceling was for the best. Deep down, she feared boredom wasn’t the

only thing driving tonight’s plans. Did some vestiges of the needy, clingy woman she’d once been still

lurk inside her, longing to be held in two strong arms, kissed by hungry lips, and drift off to sleep

lulled by the sound of someone else’s heartbeat?

God, no. Surely she’d put that woman behind her by now? She’d been cultivating a different Chloe

since her divorce, a carefree, no-strings-attached Chloe who didn’t rely on other people to make her

feel complete.

She wove strings way too easily for someone whose personal history suggested others found her

pretty dang easy to detach from. Her parents. Her husband. How many more lessons did a girl need

before she gave up on the fantasy of forever?

Zero, as far as this girl was concerned, and she considered herself a healthier person for facing

reality. Since the divorce, she’d worked hard on becoming emotionally independent and content with

her own company. And she’d succeeded, give or take a little bedroom boredom.

Her bladder, however, definitely did not qualify as content at the moment. It demanded relief from

the champagne she’d chugged. She turned and reached for the handcuff key on her nightstand, and…

dang it…fumbled the little bugger. The key fell between the bed and nightstand and then clattered

against something metal. Oh shit. Her stomach sank. She leaned over as far as possible and looked

down. Awesome. The key had fallen into the floor vent. She couldn’t see the darn thing, much less

reach it. To top off the situation, she had a Vatican’s worth of candles burning throughout her

apartment, and she had to pee, like, now.

She groaned and flopped back on the pillow. Shit. Shit. Shit. The furnished apartment her agency

had arranged for her here at Casa Clemente came complete with a landline and the old-school

answering machine, but it was in the kitchen, which might as well have been Mars for all the good it

did her now. A cell phone would be handy. Unfortunately her post-divorce budget didn’t stretch to

such luxuries. The Visa bill she still struggled to pay off—a souvenir from Drew because it turned out

canceling the card didn’t cancel the debt—and the signature loan she’d taken out to cover her

grandmother’s funeral expenses ate up most of the extra cash she earned. No sleek, efficient iPhone to

the rescue.

That whittled her options down to neighbors within shouting distance. She’d moved into her

furnished apartment a week and a half ago, and the only person she knew at Casa Clemente was Mrs.

Waverly, the owner/manager of the complex—a tanned-to-leather, pink-haired, sixty-something lady

with sharp eyes, a quick smile, and the latest gossip on every single one of her tenants. From only a

few conversations with Mrs. Waverly, Chloe knew all about the cheating wife in 2C, the

unappreciative grandkids of the retired couple in 2D, and the “handsome young man” in 2B. She

cringed at the idea of Mrs. Waverly rushing through the unlocked door, following the trail of condoms

through the candlelit living room to the bedroom where she’d find…surprise!…her nearly naked

tenant handcuffed to the bed. Imagine the earful 2B, 2C, and 2D would get about the depraved nympho

in 2A. But if she remembered correctly, Wednesday was Mrs. Waverly’s bunco night, which meant

assistance would most likely come from cheating wife, retired couple, or sweet young man. Jeez.

Maybe she could wait until…until… Until what? Her entire apartment went up in flames from the

unattended candles?

Screw that, her bladder insisted. Time to meet your neighbors.

She drew in a deep breath and yelled, “Help!”

…

Michael McCade climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment, trying to concentrate on the call

from his older brother Trevor, while silently cursing the pain shooting from his lower back down his

leg with each step. Or maybe not so silently, because Trevor stopped talking long enough to say, “Did

you just call me a fucking pain in the ass?”

“The shoe often fits…but no. I called the stairs to my apartment a fucking pain in the ass. They’re

killing my back.”

“Your back is still bothering you? It’s been weeks. What happened to, and I quote, ‘A little ice and

some ibuprofen, and I’ll be good as new’?”

“I was wrong. Turns out I have a herniated disc.”

“Mmm-hmm. Told you to go to the doctor right away, didn’t I?”

“Your wife told me to go to the doctor right away,” he corrected. “You told me, and I quote, ‘Good

luck getting laid if they put you in a back brace.’”

“Well Kylie was right. So was I, for that matter. Are you wearing a brace?”

“No,” he grunted and used the handrails to pull himself up another step. “I’m seeing my friend Dane

—”

“Dane, your beer-bonging college roommate?”

“That was over ten years ago. Nowadays he’s Dane the orthopedic surgeon. He’s giving me

excellent advice like avoid stairs.”

Two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and never so much as a hangnail. But you completely jack

yourself up here in the good, old US of A, on a freaking training exercise.

Now here he stood—a thirty-one year old marine in the prime of his life—navigating the stairs like

a geezer.

“No flying then, I’m guessing?”

“I’m grounded.” He wasn’t allowed anywhere near a helicopter, much less the actual cockpit, until

Dane, and, ultimately, Colonel Harding, his commanding officer, declared him flight-worthy. In the

meantime, was there anything more useless than a helicopter pilot who couldn’t fly? Fate had a

seriously fucked-up sense of humor.

“That sucks.”

“Yep.” And that’s really all there was to say. Everyone in the family knew how much he loved to

fly. “I gotta go. Give my love to Kylie. Tell her I’m here for her whenever she wakes up and realizes

she got the wrong McCade.”

“Sure thing, Mikey. Start holding your breath right…now.” The phone went dead.

He clicked off, smiling. It was almost too easy to get a rise out of his brother these days—Trevor

was head-over-heels when it came to Kylie. And though he enjoyed rattling Trevor’s cage every once

in a while, the truth was, the fly-by relationships he’d specialized in over the last several years had

started to feel pointless and empty. Someone special to come home to sounded pretty damn good.

Actually, just getting home sounded pretty damn good. He stared at the last stair like a sworn

enemy. His phone rang, giving him another reprieve from the uphill battle. He pulled the device out of

his pocket, assuming Trevor was hitting him back with more unsolicited older brother advice, and

answered with an impatient, “What?”

“That’s some nice phone etiquette right there, Emily Post.”

Dane’s familiar sarcasm flowed over the line. “Sorry, I thought you were Trevor. I’m kinda in the

middle of something here. Can I call you later?”

“No. Don’t call me later. My agenda tonight involves a cute, stacked, blonde receptionist from the

pediatric group upstairs in my building.”

No shocker there. Dane considered dating a sport. He attributed his success with the ladies to

growing up with four older sisters and claimed the experience gave him special insights into the

female psyche. Michael thought it had to do with the fact that Dane bore a passing resemblance to

David Beckham. “And this affects me how?”

“Just like there is no ‘I’ in ‘teamwork,’ there is no ‘U’ in ‘my date.’ I want to keep it that way, so

listen up. You’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon at 4:00 p.m. for a therapeutic massage at the

Camp Pendleton Massage Therapy Clinic. It’s the place just outside Main Gate. Don’t be late.”

“Ah shit,” he closed his eyes and tried to block out the image of lying on a massage table while

some beefy Swede pummeled him, “what happened to, maybe, you’d recommend massage?”

“You forced this on yourself when you asked me to call Harding and give him an update on your

back. He asked me, point-blank, if you’d completed all the treatment I’d recommend, and did I

consider you one hundred percent recovered. I had to admit no, on both counts. I told him I could keep

sending you to the chiropractor for adjustments to force your spine into alignment and get that bulging

disc off the nerve until the swelling subsides completely, but unless someone does the therapeutic

massage work on the underlying fascia and muscles, your vertebrae will just keep springing back into

their old position.”

He had a childish urge to throw the phone down. Only the prospect of the pain he’d inflict on

himself in the process of leaning over to retrieve it stopped him from giving in to the impulse. “So,

what you’re telling me is, I’m off flight status until I get a massage?”

“I’ve recommended a round of five, every three-to-four days. Then we’ll assess.”

“Twenty more days before I’m back in a chopper! Are you freaking kidding me?”

“I told you, Harding wants you hundred percent back to normal, or not at all. There’s no ‘well

enough’ with him—he’s very conservative. Complete the treatments, stay on his good side in the

meantime, and by this time next month, you’ll be back in the saddle…cockpit…whatever.”

“Massage therapy. Christ, is that it, or do I have to get a bikini wax too?”

“I’m sure you could use both, considering what a whiny little bitch you’re being about this, but

since I can’t think about a dude’s bikini area without wanting to stab my eyes out, I’ll leave it to your

discretion. Now say, ‘Thank you, Dane, for keeping alive my shot at flying again. You’re my hero.’”

“Yeah, you’re something all right, but ‘hero’ is not the word.”

“How about ‘trainer’ then, Saturday morning at the gym on base? I’ll come by your place at eight.”

His vertebrae wanted to say hell no to another waltz with agony conducted by sadistic Dr. Dane

Anderson, complete with unending circuits of pelvic tilts, lumbar flexion, upper back extensions, and

partial sit-ups, but, frankly, the exercises felt more likely to yield progress than something as passive

as lying on a table while someone poked and pounded his muscles. “Eight works.”

“Try not to sound so enthusiastic. Listen, you need to get your mind off your shit for a night. Want

me to call the stacked, blonde receptionist and see if she’d got a friend?”

The notion of dragging his aching body downstairs, sitting in a bar or restaurant for three hours, and

then dragging his sorry ass back up the stairs sounded like a level of hell he preferred to leave

unexplored.

“Absolutely not.” Then, realizing he sounded exactly like the whiny little bitch Dane accused him of

being, he added, “But thanks. I appreciate the offer, and I appreciate you keeping alive my shot at

getting back into the cockpit. You’re my hero. Good luck with the blonde.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it. I have unique insight into the—”

Michael laughed and disconnected.

He took the last step and then paused on the landing to let his protesting back settle. His arm shook

a little as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. Shit, he might have to break down and take a pain pill

tonight. He’d avoided using the Vicoprofen because, while the anti-inflammatory might help reduce

the swelling in his herniated disc, and the narcotic might help him get some sleep, he definitely

wouldn’t be cleared to fly while he took the drug.

Still, the prospect of a few pain-free hours and some actual sleep tempted—

“Help!”

He jolted upright, which necessitated stifling a cry of his own, and turned in the direction of the

very loud, very female distress call. What the hell? The call sounded as if it came from the apartment

across the hall from his. Mrs. W had mentioned an incoming tenant, but he’d yet to set eyes on Casa

Clemente’s newest resident. The cry for help sounded again—not the raw, strained voice of someone

in pain, but clearly someone in need of assistance. He hurried to the door.

“Hello,” he yelled, and then, thinking a woman, alone in an apartment, calling for help might

appreciate some reassurance, he added, “This is Marine Corps Major Michael McCade from 2B. Do

you need assistance?”

“Um…yes. I don’t suppose the lady who lives in 2C is around?”

Was it embarrassment or calculation he heard in her hesitation? He frowned. 2C’s husband was on

a six-month float. According to Mrs. W, 2C spent most of her time at her boyfriend’s place in

Oceanside.

“No. I’m the only one here. Look, did you need help or—”

“Yes! Yes…I do.”

He waited for her to say something more or to open the door. Neither happened. Somehow, he

resisted the urge to smack his forehead against the doorframe in an attempt to knock some sense into

himself for getting involved with what appeared to be a crazy neighbor, when all he really wanted

was a double bourbon, dinner, and bed…in that order.

“Okay, then. This is just a suggestion, but I’m thinking a good place to start would be for you to

answer the door so we don’t have to continue yelling through it.”

“That’s part of the problem. I can’t. I’m a bit…limited…at the moment.”

Well, shit. Casa Clemente was no fortress, but the thought of kicking the door in made his eyes want

to roll back in his head. His sciatic nerve promptly vetoed the idea. “Ma’am, would you like me to

call 9-1-1 for you?”

Her, “No!” practically ruptured his eardrums. “No, no,” she added in a calmer voice, and then

laughed nervously. “That would cause a scene and be really…um…unnecessary. The door is

unlocked. If you wouldn’t mind coming in, I promise, it’s completely safe.”

Now his eyes narrowed. This sounded weird. The last time something had sounded weird to him,

his chopper’s rotor had failed, he’d managed a bumpy emergency landing and hauled a bunch of

banged-up infantry troops to safety. The only lasting injury, thankfully, appeared to have been his

back. Still, lesson learned. Avoid weird. “What’s your situation, ma’am?”

“My name’s Chloe Kincaid, and my situation, as you put it, is a little hard to explain. Can you just

come in?” A note of desperation crept into her voice. “Please?”

The “please” got to him. “All right. I’m coming.” He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

“Great. And, ah…ignore all the—”

“Candles?” It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, illuminated only by candles

burning in little groups throughout the living room. He got a vague impression of colorful throw

pillows and a fuzzy burgundy blanket on the back of the standard-issue, Casa Clemente “leather” sofa.

He took a step into the apartment and something crunched under his boots. What the…? He squinted at

the speckled brown Berber. A trail of small, foil squares led from the front door, across the living

room, and down the hall toward what he presumed to be the bedroom. “Or is it the condoms you want

me to ignore?”

“Both,” replied the slightly breathless, slightly exasperated, and—maybe this was his imagination

working overtime—incredibly sexy voice. Was the voice coming from the bedroom?

“I’m back here.”

Oh yeah, definitely the bedroom. He revised his earlier assessment from “weird” to “intriguing.” A

wedge of light shone through a not-quite-closed door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open, walked

in, and found…holy shit…Victoria’s Secret handcuffed to the bed, under a Happy Birthday banner.

“I hate to tell you this, but it’s not my birthday. Do I still get the present?”

Chapter Two

“I’m kind of hoping you’ll settle for a beer,” the husky-voiced strawberry-blonde temptation replied.

In addition to the handcuffs and two wisps of black lace not very well concealed by the pillow she

hugged to herself, she wore a bright pink blush and a pained expression. Sky-wide gray eyes looked

at him with a combination of relief and wariness. The vulnerability of her position hit him like a two-

by-four. He could be anyone, and his intentions could be far from noble. Under the circumstances, he

was glad to be wearing his fatigues, which had his last name stitched across his chest pocket and his

rank insignia pinned to his collar. Hopefully it conveyed the message I’m one of the good guys. You

can trust me.

“Wanna tell me how this”—he gestured to her—“happened?”

One light eyebrow arched and her mouth twitched. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Humor me,” he said, though it was clear from the twinkling eyes that she already was.

“The guest of honor canceled this evening’s celebration at the last minute, due to extreme, Tijuana-

induced drunkenness. Then the key”—she jangled her wrist in the cuff—“fell down there, into the

vent.” She stretched toward the edge of the mattress and pointed between the bed and the nightstand.

The pillow she’d tucked against her rolled off and, though he willed his attention to the floor vent,

his eyes said fuck that and took a snap inspection of her slim, nearly naked body.

“My tool kit is in the hall closet,” she went on, absently retucking the pillow. “I’m thinking you can

unscrew the vent cover, get the key out, and unlock me.”

Those gray eyes clicked to his again. She didn’t sound particularly bent about being stood up at the

last minute…but that was none of his business. The way the lace bra plumped her breasts into a

ridiculously opulent distraction above the edge of the pillow? Also none of his business, but much

harder to dismiss. The way the matching panties cupped her like a lover? Impossible to ignore.

Everything about her appealed to him. If he’d ordered his own personal playmate, he couldn’t have

come up with a better design than what nature had so helpfully packaged into one Chloe Kincaid. He

cleared his throat and mentally stepped into a cold shower. Life had already thrown him all the

complications he could handle at the moment. Even if he had been in the market for a playmate—

which he wasn’t—his back pretty much benched him from play.

“Mind if I move this?” he pointed to the nightstand.

“Sure. Do whatever you need to do.” She cuddled the pillow tighter, crossed her right leg over her

bent left leg, and rested her left hand on her knee. The position gave her an uncomfortable I’m-

holding-myself-together look totally at odds with her casual words.

He moved the champagne flutes from the nightstand to the dresser, finding a spot for them among a

terrifying arsenal of girl-stuff: cosmetics, a flea market’s worth of costume jewelry, a rainbow of

scarfs, and a few things women always seemed to have but he couldn’t readily identify. No doubt

about it, this woman liked colorful things—and plenty of ’em.

The nightstand was heavy enough to remind him he had pain pills for a reason. Despite the

warnings from his lower back, he pulled the piece out about a foot. Far enough for him to kneel

between the bed and the nightstand and get a good look at the vent. Four screws secured the vent

cover over a whole lotta darkness.

He liked his chances of jimmying the handcuffs open with a hairpin or a paper clip better than his

odds of retrieving the key from the bottomless vent duct.

He also liked the way she smelled. With his head level to the bed, her scent surrounded and

distracted him. Sweet and edible, like cinnamon and honey. He looked over at her—a mistake

because, although she hugged the pillow to the front of her body, he now had an eye-level view of the

side of her lace-covered breast. Out of self-defense he turned his attention to the foot of the bed and

his gaze landed on her toes. A braided silver ring encircled her middle toe. Sparkly, gunmetal polish

turned her toenails into little Tahitian pearls. He imagined licking his way up her body, starting with

those toes and ending at her soft, pink lips, with lots of stops along the way. His stomach rumbled.

Due south, another organ he’d been slightly worried about since the chopper accident sat up and took

notice, and damn, it felt good. Hoping to hide both reactions, he coughed, dragged his eyes back to the

vent, and shifted until his right knee rested on the floor. Keep your shit together, McCade.

“Can you get it up?” she asked.

He blinked, swiveled his head her way and collided with guileless gray eyes. She meant the key.

“Affirmative,” he deadpanned, unable to resist. She rewarded him with a laugh and an eye roll.

“I was talking about the vent cover.”

“So was I, Gutter-mind. But going that route might take a while.”

“Oh.” She recrossed her legs the other way—left over right—and gave him an anxious look. “Time

is kind of…of the essence.” He forced his attention away from her crossed knees, and followed her

stare to the two empty champagne flutes on the dresser. Ah. The compulsive leg-crossing made sense.

She had to pee.

Before he realized his own intent, he reached out and fingered one tumbling, reddish-blonde curl.

“Do you have a hairpin?”

Her wide eyes and quick inhale made him worry he’d scared her by giving in to his urge to touch,

but then her lips curved. “Who are you? MacGyver?”

His smile broadened, and, dang it, that felt good, too. “I’m reasonably resourceful.”

“There should be one in the bathroom drawer.” Those pretty winter-ocean eyes gleamed and she

added, “I owe you a beer if you spring this cuff in the next three minutes.”

“What if I do it in two minutes?”

“Um…I’ll kiss you full on the mouth?”

A laugh rumbled up from his chest and surprised him. “Chloe, you could teach the Corps a thing or

two about motivation.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

Her one-bedroom unit had the same basic layout as his two-bedroom, so finding the hall bath took

no time at all. The small sink with cabinet resembled the one in his apartment, too, except hers looked

like a makeup counter had exploded on it. Could one woman really use all this…stuff? Apparently

yes, and then some, because when he pulled open the top drawer of the cabinet, more junk spilled out.

He dug deep and, jackpot, found a hairpin wedged into the bottom corner.

All the spit dried out of his mouth the minute he returned to the bedroom. Chloe lay on her side,

facing the handcuff. She was trying to wriggle her wrist free, and, in the process, presenting him with

an absolutely stunning view of her long, graceful back, her tiny thong, and the most mouthwatering ass

he’d ever pondered sinking his teeth into. A small, colorful tattoo rode the upper curve of her left butt

cheek. The low lights and flickering candles made discerning the tattoo a challenge at ten paces, but

by the time he reached the bedside the lines and flourishes had arranged themselves into a small bird

—a hummingbird in flight.

She was a full-fledged feast for the senses…her tantalizing scent, all the colors and textures of her,

from the wild cascade of tawny curls to the sexy little tattoo. His mind ran wild for a second. He

envisioned climbing onto the bed, ensuring she had a good grip on the headrails, and then covering

that bird with his mouth and devouring it while she bucked and squirmed and begged for more. He’d

give it to her, until she screamed his name and came against his tongue so epically the only thing he’d

taste for the foreseeable future would be pure, unadulterated Chloe.

“Nice tat.” His voice sounded like a rusty hinge. She looked back at him, and then her eyes dropped

to her hip and her lips twisted into a smile.

“My free bird.”

He came over and sat down beside her on the bed, resisting the impulse to reach out and trace the

dark blue border of the tattoo. “Free bird?”

She rolled onto her back and he leaned over her…maybe a little closer than strictly necessary…and

went to work on the cuff. “Yeah. I got the ink done a few months ago to remind me how much I

appreciate my freedom.”

“Well, in that case, I’m happy to report”—he popped the cuff—“you are once again free.”

She tried to sit up at the same time he leaned in to maneuver the cuff off her wrist. They collided a

little. Her breath rushed out at the impact of her breasts against his chest, and he breathed her in. His

mind indulged in a highly enthralling fantasy of ripping the lingerie off, hiking her knees up over his

shoulders, burying himself inside her, and showing her the joys of temporary captivity.

She let loose a little moan, which might have signified she’d read his mind, but probably had more

to do with the fact that he was pinning her to the mattress. “Sorry,” he said, but the word was barely a

murmur.

“No worries,” she whispered back. He slowly sat up. Those endless gray eyes of hers sucked him

in. A part of him knew he was absently rubbing her wrist where her attempts to pull herself out of the

cuff had left a red mark. Another part of him acknowledged the heat of her hip against his thigh. But

mostly, he just drowned in her eyes.

“I hate to appear unappreciative, but I—I really have to go.”

Go? He blinked. This was her apartment, wasn’t it? Oh, wait…she had to go.

“Right.” He climbed off the bed as quickly as his back would allow.

She darted past him like a black, lace comet. “Thanks. Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself. I’ll be

right there.”

When the bathroom door slammed shut, he released a breath, shifted the missile in his pants to a

less prominent position, and then made his way to the kitchen. Thanks to the open floor plan, the

candlelight from the living room illuminated the kitchen. He opened the fridge, twisted the cap off a

Bud, and drank, pushing aside the oddly uncomfortable realization he was probably swigging

Birthday Boy’s favorite beer. He popped the top on another bottle when she joined him a minute later,

wearing a short, silky purple robe that did absolutely nothing to erase the image of her dangerous

curves barely covered by scraps of lace.

“Better?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said, and smiled slowly as he stepped around the counter separating the kitchen

from the living room and handed her the open beer. Their fingers brushed when she took the bottle

from him and the casual contact got his blood pumping. “Thanks also for letting me hijack your

evening with my little emergency.”

“No problem.” He felt the impact of her smile all the way to the soles of his feet, forcefully enough

to have a voice in his head warning him to back off. Everything he knew about Chloe so far suggested

she was an impulsive, unconventional, bundle of trouble. After bouncing around between posts and

deployments in some of the hotter spots around the globe, he was ready to trade trouble for stability.

Maybe even follow Trevor’s example, find a nice girl, and settle down. On top of that, his CO

expected officers to set a solid example for the troops, both professionally and personally. Since

Harding could put him back in a helicopter or ground him indefinitely, Michael needed to toe the line,

and something told him Chloe’s specialty ran more to crossing lines, not toeing them.

“That’s very gracious of you to say, but it would have been a huge problem for me if you hadn’t

stopped. You saved my sorry ass.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. The Fenwicks in 2D would have heard you calling

eventually and helped you out. I do know for sure one person is going to be kicking his sorry ass

tomorrow.”

Her brow crinkled and her mouth tipped down into a confused frown. “Who?”

“The moron who missed out on the best birthday surprise ever.”

Her expression cleared. Then she tossed her head back and laughed, and the candlelight sent gold

highlights dancing in her hair. The soft, sultry sound of her laugh grabbed him by the balls, at the same

time the robe slid off her shoulder and commandeered his attention. Without seeking clearance from

his brain, his hand flew out and moved the slippery fabric back into place. His internal drill sergeant

spoke up again, with a short, precise order. Don’t touch . He ignored it and toyed with the smooth

silk.

Her laughter died away. She looked up at him with her enormous eyes and took a slow sip of beer.

Screw it; he was only human. “Tell me something, Chloe.”

Her throat worked, and she swallowed with an audible gulp. Her pupils widened. “What do you

want to know?”

“You planning to reschedule the birthday party?”

She coughed out a laugh and shook her head. “No. Tonight’s event is officially and permanently

canceled.”

“Good.” Giving in to temptation, he trailed his fingers along the back of her shoulder and down her

spine, stepping closer to her in the process. Her body heat seeped right through her thin robe and his

built-to-withstand-anything uniform. Her eyelids drifted to half-mast and her lips parted as his hand

glided past the small of her back, over her hip, and, finally, along the bottom edge of her robe. When

his fingers slipped beneath the hem and circled the tattoo, her breath hitched.

He traced the smooth skin. Goose bumps rose where he touched her.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” she whispered. One little step brought her to him. She put her beer on the

kitchen counter.

“Good timing on my part.” Lord, those lips of hers—all full, lush curves. The kind he could nibble

on for days. They parted as she inhaled and prepared to reply. He leaned closer, despite the

increasingly distant part of his brain that again said, Don’t touch.

“Under three minutes,” she murmured and came up on her tiptoes so their mouths hovered inches

apart. “I believe I promised you a kiss, and I always keep my—”

He closed the last little distance between and claimed his reward. The sweet, achingly soft touch of

her lips against his scorched every last cautionary thought about entertaining bundles of trouble

straight out of his mind. He tangled all ten fingers into her hair and dove into the kiss.

Every part of her gave. Pliant lips parted. Soft, silk-covered breasts cushioned his chest.

He closed his fist around a handful of her red-blond curls and pulled her head back to the perfect

angle. Then he sent his tongue on a tour of her mouth, stroking every part of her he could reach. The

sweet, intoxicating slide of her tongue over his, the taste of her, made him hungry to taste her

everywhere…her breasts, the soft, vulnerable skin below her navel, and the softer, even more

vulnerable hollow between her legs.

She moaned. The hand on his shoulder tightened and the one pressed to the back of his neck urged

him closer…deeper. He slid his thigh between hers, and barely stifled a groan when she ground

herself against him and made a grateful sound in the back of her throat. He’d never gone from a low

idle to full throttle so fast in his life. Her body shivered with need, equally out of control, and all he

could think was, More.

He cupped her ass and hauled her up. At the same, time she looped both arms around his neck,

twined a leg around his hip, and tried to climb him like a sequoia.

A lightning bolt ripped down his back and tore into his leg. The pain was so brutal, so

overwhelming, for a moment all he could do was suck in air and pray not to pass out. And, just like

that, the private in his pants retreated—a humbling reminder he wasn’t fit for active duty.

Fuck. Me.

The irony was nobody could. Not while his spine threatened to shatter into a million pieces at the

least little thing. Has she felt him flinch? Had she, God forbid, felt him go limp?

He opened his eyes and stared into gray ones clouded with an absolutely annihilating blend of

passion and concern. “Are you okay?”

“I have to go,” he muttered and looked down at their intertwined bodies rather than face whatever

emotion played next across her expressive features. He let go slowly, returning her to her own two

feet before disentangling himself, so she didn’t lose her balance and he didn’t crumple to the floor.

He straightened as if his vertebrae were made of spun glass and chanced a glance at her. She’d

turned away and concentrated on tightening the belt on her robe, but her protective stance didn’t

conceal her rigid posture and jerky movements.

“Sorry. That was…” What could he say? “Not the wisest move on my part. I can’t do this. I—”

Nice job. You sound like an asshole . “I’ve got to go.” He stepped around her, walked out the door,

and just kept walking—along the hall, down the stairs, straight into the warm, spring night. When he’d

gone about a quarter of a mile, he stopped, stared up at the big, full moon surrounded by a fleet of

stars, and took a deep, head-clearing breath. He smelled cinnamon and honey.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Three

“Do you regain your virginity after a whole year of no sex?”

Chloe propped the phone between her ear and her shoulder and stared at the muscular-skeletal

diagram hanging in the front office area of the Camp Pendleton Massage Therapy Clinic. “I don’t

know,” she told Lynne, her recruiter at Helping Hands Clinical Solutions.

Lynne called every week to check in and see how an assignment was going, but Chloe always did

well and never had any work-related issues, so her personal life had quickly taken center stage in

their conversations. The thirty-seven-year-old, married mother of two couldn’t seem to get her head

around Chloe’s year of living like a nun. According to Lynne, the word said it all. Nun.

“But I thought last night was the BIG night. Happy birthday, and all that? What happened?”

Chloe sighed and shifted her attention to the appointment book on the desk in front of her, which lay

open to the afternoon’s schedule. Five minutes until her next client. “He canceled at the last minute.

Turns out his coworkers kidnapped him and hauled him off to TJ for a birthday bar crawl.”

“Oh. That’s very disappointing.”

No argument, but, honestly, she heard more disappointment in Lynne’s voice than she felt herself.

“It’s okay. This was fate’s way of telling me something. What, I’m not sure, but something.”

“Think you’ll reschedule?”

The question conjured an image in her head. Not of Troy, but, rather, Major Michael McCade, and

how quickly he’d exited her apartment last night after she’d locked lips with him. “I don’t know,

Lynne.” She picked up a pen and doodled the word “Fate” in flowing letters on a yellow Post-it note.

“I’m beginning to wonder if, maybe, after all this time I’m actually…unfuckable?”

“Oh please. If you’re unfuckable, I’m downright untouchable. You still have your tight, firm,

twenty-something body. Stretch marks haven’t slashed their way across your belly. Your hips haven’t

widened to twice their original span from the ordeal of passing nine-plus pounds of bouncing baby

boy—twice.”

“Your husband loves your belly and hips.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, sounding content, “but that’s love, not lust. Nobody’s lusted after me in a

hundred years. You inspire lust simply by breathing, and don’t let your cheating ex-husband make you

doubt it. By the same token, stop reading any message into Troy’s no-show. He doesn’t know what he

missed.”

“He doesn’t,” she conceded, “but his no-show isn’t the only reason I’ve come to doubt my

fuckability. I got a little…um…hung up with the handcuff, and my neighbor across the hall had to

come rescue me.”

She doodled the word “Rescue” in the same flowing script, directly under “Fate.”

“The cheating wife? You met her?” Lynne asked, obviously scandalized.

“No, my other neighbor…a very tall, dark-haired, extremely mouthwatering Major Michael

McCade—

“Shall we call him Major Hottie?”

“If you insist.”

“I do. So, Major Hottie walked in and you were lying on your bed wearing your new undies and a

handcuff and nothing else?”

“Yep. He waded right into my little drama.”

“Very heroic of him.”

“No doubt. The man is standing in my bedroom, looking like a big, strapping Boy Scout in his

cammies, and trying his best to be a gentleman, but he’s eyeing me like he’s not quite sure whether he

wants to gobble me up in one big bite or run fast in the other direction.”

“And you?”

“Jesus, Lynne, the mere sight of him is filling my head with such naughty thoughts, I’m ready to roll

over and let him spank me ’til I cry, or come, or both. Then he hunkers down and works the cuffs with

this kind of innate skill that makes me want to beg him to work the rest of me with those same talented

hands. His smile tells me he knows it, and he totally could, without breaking a sweat. So we go out to

the kitchen, have a beer, and I swear to you, the chemistry between us is crackling. There’s a freaking

electrical storm right there in my apartment. He leans in, we kiss, and whoosh! I go up in flames.”

“Wow. Flame kiss. Niiiice.”

“Right. My inhibitions—such as they were—go poof, I’m ready to climb on and ride him like a

wild Mustang, when, all of the sudden he pulls away, says, ‘I can’t,’ and…I kid you not…walks out

my door.”

“Holy shit, why?”

“I’ve wondered the same thing ever since he left. And the only reason I can come up with is I’m

unfuckable.”

“Shut up. You’re not. Maybe he’s gay…or in a relationship.”

Chloe laughed. “He’s not gay. I could feel it.”

“You could feel that he wasn’t gay?” Doubt infused Lynne’s question.

“If he’s gay, he had a weapon of mass destruction in his pants when we kissed. His hands were all

over my ass and he couldn’t get his body close enough to mine. My verdict? He ain’t gay. He’s not in

a relationship either, or he wouldn’t have kissed me in the first place.”

“Right, ’cause people in relationships never cheat.”

“Boy Scout, remember? There’s something fundamentally trustworthy about him.”

“Must be his skill at picking locks,” Lynne said dryly.

“Okay, he’s a bad-ass Boy Scout who knows his way around a pair of handcuffs, but still

fundamentally trustworthy. He was physically attracted, but, for some reason that had nothing to do

with being gay or taken, he backed off. My pheromones must be stale from lack of use, and now I’ve

got the stink of desperate woman on me.” Horny, desperate woman.

She drew the word “Pathetic,” on her Post-it note.

“You do not have a desperate woman stink on you. There’s some other explanation.”

“Such as?” Sad, how badly she wanted another explanation.

“I don’t know. Give me a second to cool down and focus. I’m still back at spanking me ’til I cry or

come.”

The door to the waiting room opened and closed. In the opaque sliding glass shielding the waiting

room from the front office area, Chloe saw the shadow of a client come in and take a seat. She

crumpled her Post-it note and tossed it into the trash bin under the counter.

“I should probably thank him for the hasty retreat. Major Hottie is military down to the soles of his

combat boots, and he has keeper written all over him. Camouflage gives me hives, and the only things

I keep these days fit in my suitcase. Maybe he sensed our lives are moving in different directions and

decided not to start something we’d both end up regretting after we got all the spanking and crying and

coming out of the way.”

“You want to talk regret? I was all revved up to live vicariously through your exploits. Let an old

married woman dream, ’kay?”

“Okay, but you’ll have to dream on your own. I have two more clients this afternoon and the first

one just arrived.”

“More vets?”

“Dunno. I still need to look at the charts. Probably.”

“Well, good luck with that. Sempler is very happy with you.”

Sempler was the stick-up-his-ass manager of the clinic. “Really? Seems like he’s waiting for me to

screw up.”

“Don’t screw up. You’re the first therapist we’ve placed there who’s lasted longer than a week.”

Not surprising. Mr. Sempler lived to criticize. But Chloe liked southern California, and, frankly,

she needed the paycheck. “I won’t. ’Bye, Lynne.”

“’Bye, Unfuckable.”

Har. Chloe hung up and then stood and smoothed her formfitting, raspberry-pink sleeveless sweater

over her drapey white maxi-skirt. Massage therapy involved constant standing, stretching, and

extending, so, for work, she always chose comfy clothes she could move in. Too bad she didn’t get to

choose everything about her work wardrobe. She lifted her lab coat from where she’d slung it over

the back of the chair and shrugged it on. The coat was Sempler’s edict. Personally, she thought the

white coat made some of the clients tense—which she considered counterproductive—but he was the

boss. She picked up a pen and tucked it into her breast pocket and then grabbed the chart for the next

client on her way to the waiting room. Hopefully this new client would demand all of her attention,

because she was sick of thinking about—

Oh hell. She drew to a stop. What was up with her karma these days? There, in the waiting room,

sat a tall, dark monument of testosterone otherwise known as Major Hottie. He looked up from his

study of the bamboo floor at the same time she halted, and inscrutable brown eyes settled on her. She

glanced at the file in her hand. Sure enough, the tab read, “McCade.” Perfect.

She ignored the nervous flutter in her stomach, and gave him her best professional smile. “Hello,

Major McCade.”

“Howdy neighbor.”

Okay then, no pretending last night didn’t happen. Other than that, she had absolutely no read on

him. He was a master of self-containment. She drew in a deep, fortifying breath. “Please follow me.”

He stood to obey, so she led him to the treatment room at the end of the hall and gestured for him to

have a seat on the padded, sheet-draped table. She sat on the rolling stool at the head of the treatment

table and flipped open his chart. Her ears barely registered the tropical-rainforest soundtrack that

spilled from hidden speakers and merged with the gurgle of the countertop Zen fountain. A quick read

told her what she needed to know. His referring physician’s report was very detailed and included

copies of his images—acute herniated lumbar disc, with resultant sciatica. Ouch. She looked at him,

noticing how upright he sat and wondering, for the first time, if that had more to do with discomfort

than military bearing.

“I see this is your first massage-therapy session.”

“Yep.” He frowned, and his eyes shifted to the door. She got the distinct feeling he wasn’t there by

choice and wondered if her presence contributed to his reluctance.

She let out a breath. “Major, your overall comfort plays a vital role in healing. Would you prefer a

different therapist?”

“Michael,” he corrected with a gently mocking smile she realized was mostly self-directed. “And

no,” he looked down at his boots, “if I have to do this holistic stuff, I’d just as soon stick with you.”

She didn’t take his attitude personally. Men, especially the alpha-types, tended to think of massage

as the shoulder rub they gave their girlfriend or wife as a precursor to sex. Definitely not a legitimate

modality. She clicked her pen and prepared to make some notes. “Tell me, Michael, how’ve you been

sleeping lately?”

The question surprised him enough to drag his attention away from the study of his bootlaces. She

could read the answer well enough in his weary eyes, but she waited for him to admit it to her.

“Not great. Maybe five hours a night.” Unconsciously, he rubbed a hand over his lower back.

She mentally subtracted a couple hours from his estimate, because the tough guys never admitted the

full extent of a problem. Poor man. He must be exhausted. Lucky she’d chosen this treatment room. It

was the quietest, and with only one other client scheduled this afternoon, he could sleep for an hour or

so after his session ended.

“Okay.” She stood and crossed to the door. “There’s a hanger over here for your clothes. Get

undressed and lay on the table, under the sheet, facedown. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll get

started.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Completely undressed?”

She raised hers right back. “You can leave your socks on if you’d like. Is there a problem?”

Michael stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re in charge.”

She tamped down on her smirk until she exited the room. She would be, in about ten minutes. Her

attraction to massage therapy lay in the ability to bring people relief from pain and tension and

provide a deep state of relaxation. After almost five years of doing bodywork, she had confidence in

her skills. He’d sleep like a baby by the time she was done with him.

…

Michael eased down onto the massage table, raised the sheet up to the middle of his chest, and

carefully turned onto his stomach. He waited there, head resting on his folded arms, and looked

around the room. Light green walls and bamboo floors conveyed earthy tranquility. Pale, honeycomb

blinds filtered the sunlight coming in from the single window on the wall to his left. A small fountain

gurgled on top of a bureau on the opposite wall. Above the bureau hung a row of cabinets holding

God only knew. Soft music flowed from the speakers in the corners of the room.

All the serenity made him want to go directly to the gym and punch the big bag until his knuckles

swelled and rendered him unable to make a fist. He couldn’t have felt more like a chick at a day spa if

Chloe had handed him a fluffy pink robe and cozy slippers.

Fuck it. He didn’t have a choice. Harding expected him to complete all recommended treatments

and get a clean bill of health before he’d be cleared to fly. Dane wanted the massage therapy to

help…whatever…keep his muscles from pulling his bones out of whack. Fifty minutes out of his day,

but it felt like a colossal waste of time. Was there any absurdity he wouldn’t endure in order to fly

again?

Probably not, he acknowledged as his wandering gaze snagged on a light pink bottle of massage oil

sitting on top of the small cabinet closest to the treatment table.

A soft knock behind him interrupted his reluctant effort to get in touch with his feminine side. Chloe

entered, looking sexy-professional with her hair caught up in a loose twist at the back of her head. A

few untamed strands curled free to frame her face. The clinical white coat hid her traffic-stopping

curves, but for some perverse reason, made him fixate on every remembered inch of smooth skin

currently cloaked from his view.

A highly detailed and extremely unhelpful image of her tattoo floated through his mind while she

closed the door and then fiddled with the dimmer switch until only muted light lingered in the room.

Once she was satisfied with the lighting level, she walked toward him, pausing at the foot of the table

to lift the sheet an inch. The sight of his sock-covered feet coaxed a laugh out of her, and the husky

sound did funny things to his gut. She tucked the sheet under his feet, still smiling.

“You didn’t come across quite so shy last night.”

He returned her smile, despite his cranky mood. “I was fully clothed last night. You were the next-

to-naked one. If you’d like to rectify that right now, I think that would make me much more

comfortable.”

Her low, throaty laughter practically vibrated over his skin. She moved to the head of the table,

switched out the pink bottle for one that looked reassuringly plain, and then sat down on the stool

positioned there. Now their faces were almost level. “That’s an entirely different kind of massage,

I’m afraid, and not one offered here at the clinic.”

“Strictly a Casa Clemente special?”

Her smile softened. “Maybe. But you seemed to have second thoughts last night, and I figured you

weren’t into it. Tell me, did the back pain have anything to do with your sudden about-face?”

Those eyes of hers were twin universes. He could float in them for days. But he owed her an

apology for letting her think he’d bailed because of anything she’d done. “I’m sorry, Chloe. Last night

was not my finest moment. I left for…various reasons…but not being ‘into it’ wasn’t one of them. The

back pain factored.” He recalled the almost debilitating nerve spasms and winced. “Heavily.”

She tipped her head to the side and her smile went crooked. “Well, I can’t help with your ‘various

reasons,’ but I might be able to do something about your back.” With that, she stood and drew the

sheet down…all the way down…like, down to the top of his ass crack.

He propped himself up on his forearms, ignored the protest from his lower back, and looked around

to see how much of him just went on display. Yep, pretty much as he thought.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Don’t worry, Major. I’ll talk you through everything. Rest your head in the padded ring.” She

gently pushed the top of his head down until she had him where she wanted him. Since his view now

consisted of nothing but the floor, he closed his eyes. “Go ahead and put your arms down by your

sides.”

“Perfect,” she said when he did as she asked. “So, first I’m simply going to scan your back with my

hands, to get the lay of the land, and see where you’re carrying tension…” Her words trailed off as

she touched his neck, his shoulders, ran her hands along the sides of his spine. If his eyes hadn’t

already been closed, they would be now. Her touch felt…amazing.

“All right,” she went on, making long, sweeping strokes across his shoulders and down his back.

“Like most people, you’ve got some tension in your neck, which transmits to your shoulders and

leaves them tight. I’m going to start there, working the knots out, to get you used to my touch. From

your neck, I’ll move down the erector spinea and on to the lumbosacral region to get those muscles

and connections nice and loose. Nothing I do should ever hurt, so let me know immediately if you

experience any discomfort, okay?”

“’Kay,” he managed, surprised at how relaxed he already sounded.

“I’m going to warm some oil in my hands.” Her stroking movements stopped for a moment and he

heard the click of a bottle opening, followed by the slick sound of oil-lubricated palms rubbing

together. For some reason his dick went rigid with anticipation. Lying still on the table became a form

of torture that would never comport with the Geneva Convention.

Then slim, surprisingly strong thumbs went to work on his neck, and it was all he could do not to

groan out loud as every muscle she touched simply…dissolved. He might have made a noise when

she leaned over him and moved on to his shoulders, because she stopped, and asked, “How’s the

pressure?”

The pressure on his back? Heaven. The pressure between his legs? Agony. He raised his chin and

accidentally nestled the back of his head into her breasts. Her familiar, cinnamon-and-honey scent

flooded his senses. With another small groan, he dropped his face into the ring. “Do you mind if I find

a more…comfortable position?”

“Of course not. I want you to be completely at ease.” She pulled the sheet up a few inches before

taking a step back. “Go ahead and get situated. Let me know when you’re ready.”

He somehow refrained from reaching down and adjusting himself manually. Instead, he made do

shifting his hips, and, to distract from what was going on below deck, repositioned his forehead on

the padded headrest.

“All better?”

The only way this will ever be better is if you get naked, get under me, and I bury myself in you

so deep we both wonder how I’m going to find my way out. “Yep. Thanks.”

“Great.” She lowered the sheet again and then rested her hands on his shoulders. “I’m going to keep

working on your trapezius, moving down to the middle fibers and then the lower fibers. Stop me if

something doesn’t feel right.”

Then those hands of hers started moving again, and he turned into a puddle of flesh. Even his dick

relaxed. By the time she moved on to his lower back, he really didn’t care what the hell she was

doing to him, as long as she kept doing it. Her hand settled on the lower curve of his spine, and her

fingers probed between his vertebrae. When she found the spot she was looking for, she applied

gentle traction. He didn’t succeed in holding back a groan. She made a sympathetic sound and used

both palms to sooth the area before placing her fingers a little lower and applying the traction again.

Heat and tension built under her hand. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but she was in the danger zone and

anything to do with his lower back made him nervous.

He thought about stopping her, and the tightening of his muscles must have telegraphed his intention,

because she placed her other hand lightly at the base of his skull, applied pressure there in the

opposite direction, and said, “Shhh. Don’t tense up. Give it one more second.”

“Chloe, I’m not so sure…oh…fuuuck.”

Something in his lower back released. Effortlessly, painlessly, the tight spot under her fingers

softened and relaxed. Relief flooded him, so profound and amazing it almost made him whimper.

“Good work,” she said and massaged the area with long, downward passes. He wanted to say thank

you, but it came out in an inarticulate jumble—more of a grunt of gratitude than actual speech.

“You’re welcome,” she said softly and he heard the smile in her voice. She just kept stroking,

stroking, stroking…lower back, midback, shoulders, and then working her way down again. He felt

himself sinking deeper into the table, surrendering to the magic of her touch, and wondered what the

hell he’d gotten himself into.

Chapter Four

Chloe walked her last patient of the day to the front desk. She scheduled the sweet, retired lieutenant

colonel with a freshly unlocked scapula for a follow-up appointment next week and then waved good-

bye as he made his way through the empty waiting room and out the door.

A sticky note on the computer screen at the desk advised her Mr. Sempler had gone to get his car

washed and would be back in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes? Chloe fumed for a second, then shrugged

out of her white coat and laid it on the back of the desk chair. She took the note and stared a hole

through it.

Her shift ended in ten minutes. Unfortunately, she couldn’t leave until Sempler got back. He needed

to sign off on her time card, and, even if she’d been inclined to let that wait until tomorrow, she didn’t

have a key and refused to leave the clinic unlocked and unattended. Looked like she’d be sticking

around, off the clock and unpaid, for an additional twenty minutes. She could try to add the

involuntary overtime to her time card, but even after less than two weeks on the job, she knew

Sempler well enough to know he’d nix it. He was a real stickler…with everyone but himself.

There’s no such thing as a perfect assignment . With that piece of Lynne wisdom floating in her

mind, she trashed the note and headed down the hall. Might as well use the extra twenty minutes

productively. First, she needed to wake sleeping beauty in treatment room three, if he hadn’t already

woken up and left. Then she’d ready the rooms for tomorrow and complete her time card. A knock on

the last door yielded no response. She peeked inside the room she’d darkened over an hour ago. From

the light coming in around the edges of the blinds she saw Michael lying on the table. He’d flipped

over onto his back sometime during his nap and flung his forearm over his forehead. The sheet dipped

low across his chiseled hips. His deep, steady breathing told her he was still asleep. She stepped into

the room, shut the door behind her as softly as possible, and tiptoed to the table.

Tiptoeing was unnecessary, considering the flutey music still wafting from the speakers and the

gurgling fountain dampened the other sounds in the room. Besides, she needed to wake him, but she

wanted an extra moment or two to admire him, close-up. Shadows slanted across his neck, his abs,

gathered in the folds where the sheet draped over him. God, he really was a work of art. Not that she

hadn’t appreciated the carved-from-granite body while she’d had him on her table earlier, but, then,

he’d been a client in need of help, and she, a trained professional on a mission to relieve his pain.

Now her shift, like his appointment, had ended, and he was simply a hot guy wearing nothing but a

thin sheet and a pair of socks, sleeping like a log. What red-blooded heterosexual woman wouldn’t

stare?

She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but her fingers somehow ended up buried in his thick,

dark hair. Lifting it, sifting it, letting the short, silky strands caress her skin. His slow, steady

breathing hitched. His eyelids fluttered, and suddenly, she found herself caught in the same

impenetrable brown gaze that had hijacked her dreams last night—hot, restless dreams from which

she’d woke with a groan of raw frustration.

“Feeling better?” she murmured.

He held her in the tractor beam of his stare and nodded. Then slowly, very slowly, he reached up,

cupped the back of her head, and brought her mouth close to his…stopping when their lips almost

touched.

Hers parted, and blood flowed into her lips, plumping them up in an effort to bridge the

infinitesimal gap.

“You’ve healed me and tormented me at the same time, Chloe.”

Sweet Jesus, the things this man did to her with nothing but words. Muscles contracted deep inside

her and she shivered from the unbidden sensation, even as she had the comforting thought that at least

she wasn’t the only one to experience the dubious honor of waking up edgy and needy.

He nibbled her lower lip. She sighed and sank into him. He moved on to the upper lip, and she

pressed closer, craving more. He sat up and gave her more, sliding his tongue into her mouth. The

contact threatened to unleash all the longing she’d been struggling to hold in check since last night.

Would it be so wrong to loosen the leash and satisfy the longings? So what if they didn’t belong

together in the long run. There wasn’t any “long run” in a six-week assignment. She grabbed for his

shoulders…his neck. She couldn’t get her tongue tangled around his fast enough.

Apparently he picked up on her urgency, because he fused his lips to hers and proceeded to whip

her into an absolute frenzy. She had a sudden, violently clear vision of him teasing another vulnerable

part of her into the exact same state. Heat sizzled through her system, starting fires in all her

erogenous zones. She rubbed her thighs together to ease the burn but quickly realized she’d only made

matters worse.

Maybe she moaned, because he slid to the edge of the table, wedged his thigh between hers, and

hauled her up against him until she was on her tiptoes. Her knees went weak. She felt precarious in

this position, like straddling a bicycle a little bit too big for her.

Her panties were soaked. She knew it, and, when his groan rumbled in her ear, she figured he knew

it too. Then, with a seemingly effortless flex of his arm, he rocked her against him. His muscle-

corded, sheet-covered thigh provided plenty of rough, soul-fracturing friction, and all she could do

was think, Again. Again. Can I ride this ride forever?

She pressed her face into his neck and held on. The warmth of his skin intensified the smell of the

massage oil and she wondered, belatedly, if sandalwood had previously unknown intoxicating

properties. He was so big and warm and solid, she felt ridiculously delicate and…almost…protected,

in his arms.

“I want you, Chloe. It’s insane how much.” The words ground over his vocal chords, so low and

raw and honest she felt tears burn her eyes. His need sank into every cell in her body. She absorbed it

like a drug and immediately wanted more. Because it’s been so long , she told herself. Otherwise the

depth of her response to this man would be frightening. She raised her head and dove into another

hungry kiss.

Strong fingers traced the scooped neckline of her top and then shoved it down beneath her breasts.

He broke the kiss to look at what he’d uncovered. She stood there, panting, blind to everything except

him. Instead of taking up where he’d left off, however, he tugged her cotton-candy pink bra down as

well and lowered his mouth to her bared breasts.

When he caught her sensitive nipple and drew it into his mouth, she cried out and speared her

fingers into his hair. He sucked her in. Deep. Hard. Her toes curled in her pink ballet flats.

One of his hands snuck under the back of her skirt and kneaded her ass, rubbing her against his

hard-packed quad in time with every contraction of his mouth around her nipple. Perfect rhythm.

Perfect position. Perfect everything. Pressure intensified, and centered until she could almost catch

hold of the orgasm shimmering tantalizingly close…almost reach it, almost…scream with impatience

when he stopped. The scream turned to a thin cry when he switched to the other breast and started the

insanity again.

Soon her thighs burned from repeatedly clenching around his. Her hips strove for their own rhythm

—a little bit quicker. “Now,” she moaned, moving her hands all over his back, his shoulders, down

his chest. “I need you. Now. Now. Now.” This could happen, if they hurried, and she focused, and

didn’t blow it.

An insidious tentacle of anxiety coiled in her gut. Stop overthinking things. Just feel.

The sheet still rode low across his lap. She grabbed it and flung it to the floor.

Her hand closed around him at the same time she looked down.

Ohmigod. He was huge. Some very personal muscles tightened at the glorious sight. The thought of

him thrusting into her oh-so-neglected body, filling her until she cried out from the sweet strain of

having him inside her, sent shivers shimmying through her.

He closed his hand around hers, and showed her how he liked to be handled. At the same time, he

kissed his way from her breast to her ear. “How do you like it?”

“It’s stunning. I haven’t seen one this impressive in a long time.” A looong time.

His laugh tickled her ear and made her shiver all the more. “I meant, do you like it slow and steady,

or hard and fast?” He let go of her hand and resumed rocking her against his thigh, and she worried

she’d never get a chance to tell him how she liked it because she was going to come all over his leg

like an animal in heat.

“Fast,” she gasped. “It’s got to be fast.”

He rocked her again. “Fast and rough?”

“I promise not to rough you up.”

“No deal. I want you to rough me up good, because I’m not stopping until you lose control—until

you rake my ass with your fingernails, and sink your teeth into my shoulder to keep from screaming,

‘Faster, Michael, fuck me faster,’ at the top of your lungs. And when I finally let you come, it’s going

to be brutal. You’ll take days to stop trembling. Are you ready for that?”

Ready? She was beyond ready. He’d just laid out what sounded like the best plan she’d heard in

over a year. She tunneled her fingers into his hair and rained kisses along his jaw, his chin, closing in

on his mouth. “I’m ready. Should I apologize ahead of time for all the scratching and biting?”

“I don’t see why.” He kissed her quick and hard. “You’re not going to be sorry.”

Before she could wrap her head around that, he slid off the table and prepared to switch their

positions. The die-hard therapist inside her woke with a start and applied the brakes. “Your back—I

don’t want to undo all the good work we accomplished this afternoon. We want flexion, not extension.

Here.” She hiked her skirt up and then turned and draped herself over the massage table.

And waited. The room went utterly silent, except for the flute music and the fountain. She craned

her neck around and looked at him. He stared at her butt like a man in a trance. Shoot. Was this not a

turn-on? Did she have a bunch of cellulite she didn’t know about? “Um…will this work for you?”

Her question seemed to yank him back to the here and now. His eyes lifted to hers. Then he stepped

up behind her until she could feel the long, hard ridge of his erection against her backside. His quick,

sharp, “Oorah,” filled her ears.

She bit her lip and pressed backward. “Really like my tattoo, huh?”

“I like every gorgeous inch of you.” He dragged her thong down until it dangled somewhere around

her knees.

Those big, calloused hands grasped her hips and tugged her into position. She grabbed onto the

massage table and scrambled for purchase on the slippery bamboo floor.

“Don’t lift me. You’ll hurt yourself. I can…” She arched her back and widened her stance, and

although she couldn’t see him every soft pink part of her tingled under the heat of his gaze. Maybe she

had regained her virginity after a year without sex, because just the anticipation of him filling her

made her insides contract and release in the first thrilling warning signs of a complete, full-body

meltdown. Please, let it happen.

He ran the head of his erection down her backside, and, oh God, that nudged her a little closer to

heaven. She was there…right there…quivering on the brink—

The door swung open and banged against the wall. “Ms. Kincaid!” a shocked voice barked.

Behind her, Michael jerked as if he’d been shot. Despite the shock, he somehow thought to shift his

body to shield her while he yanked her skirt down. Chloe pushed up and turned in time to see

Sempler’s beet red face. “My office, Ms. Kincaid.” He spun on his heel and added, “Now.”

Chapter Five

Suffocating heat stormed up Chloe’s chest and into her cheeks. She stared at the door and whispered

the first words that popped into her mind. “Holy shit. I’m so fired.”

Michael looked up from fastening his pants. “I’ll go talk to him. Explain—”

“Explain what?” She groaned and covered her furnace of a face with her hand. “You were

delighted to discover your massage included a happy ending?”

“Chloe—”

“No.” She held up her hand and shook her head. “Nothing you can do will make this situation

better. Please, just go.”

To make matters worse, her entire nervous system screamed with unfulfilled need. Every move

introduced new forms of torture. She took a step toward the door and tripped over something tangled

around her ankles. Michael caught her before she toppled like a bowling pin and pulled her back

against his chest. “Take a deep breath and give yourself a second.”

She looked down past his crossed forearms locking her to him and saw her pink underwear

dangling at her feet. Shit.

With as much dignity as she could muster, she bent over to remove them, inadvertently nudging her

backside into his lap in the process. A pathetic little reminder of her almost orgasm shimmied through

her at the contact and she barely resisted the urge to curl up into a fetal position and bawl. Instead she

straightened, wadded the panties into her fist, and raised her head.

“You have to go,” she said, amazed out how steady her voice sounded and walked out of the room.

…

Where the hell was she? Michael knocked on Chloe’s door for the hundredth time and frowned at his

watch. Eleven thirty and still no sign of her. And dammit, he was worried…and guilty. He shared

equal responsibility for what had happened between them this afternoon, but their recklessness would

cost her a job. It wouldn’t do much for his career either, if the manager of the clinic decided to report

him, but since he hadn’t heard a peep out of Harding, he figured no complaint had been filed…yet.

That particular sword still hung over his head, but there was nothing he could do to influence that

situation. He didn’t know what, if anything, he could do to fix things for Chloe, but he had a deep-

seated need to try…if he could ever figure out where she was.

Mrs. Waverly walked up with an envelope in her hand. “Hello, Michael. Are you looking for

Chloe?”

“What? Uh…yes.”

“Ha! Knew it! I figured it was only a matter of time before that girl caught your eye.” The older

woman’s white teeth gleamed against her tanned skin as she approached. “She’s a doll. I’m glad she’s

making friends. I wish she wasn’t leaving us so soon.”

Chloe was leaving soon? Did her imminent departure have anything to do with what went down at

the clinic this afternoon? He hated to pump Mrs. W for information, but he had a bad feeling about

this. “Do you happen to know where she went tonight?”

“Well, no…but, a pretty young thing like her is probably out on a date. Why, back in my day, I’d a’

been discoing my ass off every night.”

He couldn’t help but grin. “Are you heading out to the disco, then, Mrs. W?”

She laughed her rusty chainsaw laugh. “God bless you, no. I had dinner and went to a movie with

some of the bunco girls, including Loretta. They’re downstairs at my place, finishing off the after-

movie cheesecake. Want me to say hi for you?”

Loretta was Mrs. W’s best friend, and his CO’s wife. With nothing but the offhand offer, Mrs. W

had just reminded him of the short distance between his personal life and his job. “Sure Mrs. W.

Have fun.”

“You too, Michael. Have a nice night.” She stuck the plain, white envelope under Chloe’s door and

then went down the hall toward the stairs.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned back to his apartment. Where would you go if you just

got fired? He’d never been in the situation, but something told him he’d want a drink. Around here,

that generally meant the Stars & Bars Roadhouse. He grabbed his keys and headed downstairs to the

carports, not missing the fact that his back didn’t bother him at all. The realization compounded his

guilt. She’d healed his back, and his ego, and he’d gotten her canned.

The drive to the Stars & Bars took no time, but parking proved more of a challenge. The place

drew a crowd on Thursday nights—mostly young marines and a decent sprinkling of girls from San

Clemente and surrounding communities to keep the GIs’ hopes up. Tonight the warm breeze and clear,

starry sky had them spilling out onto the raised porch spanning the front of the wood-shingled

structure. The crowd didn’t hinder his ability to spot Chloe at twenty paces. Her hair glowed like

copper under the porch lights. She perched on the porch rail, holding a margarita, and gesturing

sloppily at some grunt whose puffed up chest and perma-smile clearly said he couldn’t believe his

luck.

Michael walked over until he stood directly below her. “Hello, Chloe.”

She swiveled her head to look down at him. Her body swayed perilously. “Major Hottieeee! Hey.

Long time no see. D’you know Dillon?” She splashed her margarita at the young, clean-shaved marine

standing beside her. “Dillon from Amadillo. Texas born, jus like me.”

Dillon blushed and nodded. “Amarillo, sir.”

“Tha’s what I said. Call him Armadillon, ’cause, look.” She reached out and knocked her knuckles

against the kid’s abs. “Hard. Just like an armadirro…an amarilla…an armadillo—whew,” she rolled

her eyes heavenward and laughed, “I shudda tested that one out before I used it in a sentence…oooh,

look at all the stars out tonight.”

A light breeze ruffled the hem of her white skirt, so it fluttered around her dangling legs. To call her

“trashed” would be an understatement. She couldn’t focus for shit. She slurred her words, and she

was about two minutes from passing out, throwing up, or both. “Chloe,” he said quietly and waited

until her spinning eyes made a long, meandering circuit back to him. “You’re headed for a fall here.

You plan to take that kid down with you”—he pointed at Armadillon—“or are you going to let a man

catch you?”

“Sir?”

“No offense,” he added and braced as she teetered.

“I’m fiiiiine,” she insisted, throwing an arm out expansively, splashing him with her drink in the

process. Then she overbalanced. Armadillon dropped his beer and made a grab for her, but came up

short. She toppled and fell directly into Michael’s waiting arms. His back barely complained about

the sudden burden of a hundred and ten pounds of dead weight, and he figured he had her to thank for

that little miracle.

“Nice sa-save,” she hiccupped.

“Saving you seems to be my new habit.”

She looked up at him and her hands found his shoulders. “You’re hard, too.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He set her on her feet, keeping an arm around her waist, and

discretely adjusted the neckline of her slinky little sweater so her bra wasn’t peeking out.

“Do I owe you another kis—” She hiccupped again. “Another ki—uh-oh.” She turned away and

stumbled out of his hold.

He caught her around the waist from behind and pulled her hair back. “I’ll take a rain check.”

She nodded and proceeded to fertilize the grass with what had to be half a pitcher of margaritas.

“She’s all yours, sir,” Armadillon said, but had the grace to look sheepish as he handed Michael

her purse.

Suitcase, he mentally corrected when he took the large, brightly patterned bag and slung it over his

shoulder. He had no idea what she carried in there—and he didn’t want to know—but he’d hefted

combat rucks that weighed less.

Chloe moaned and sagged against him. He gathered her up, ignoring the guilty weight in his chest

when she turned her pale, sweaty face into his shirt. “Sorry.”

“No sorry necessary.”

She gave him a weary, half smile, but her eyelids drooped.

“Say good night, Chloe.”

“G’nite, Chloe,” she mumbled and passed out.

Michael drove back to Casa Clemente with Chloe’s soft breathing as the only soundtrack to the

otherwise-quiet night. He parked and came around to the passenger side of the Jeep to assess his

options. He opened the door and unhooked her seat belt. No reaction.

“Chloe,” he said, and shook her shoulder. Still nothing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and then

ran his hand over his head and along the back of his neck. His back felt better than it had in three

weeks, but, while it galled him to admit it, he doubted the healing disc would tolerate him carrying

her up the stairs like a bride. Over his shoulder would be safer. What it lacked in romance it more

than made up for in the reduced likelihood of him dumping her on her ass if his back failed. Carrying

her like that also left him with a hand free to grab the rail and stabilize, if necessary. He knelt down in

front of the open door, settled her over his right shoulder, and was about to take her full weight when

he heard her groan.

“Relax. I’ve got you.”

She must have opened her eyes and figured out what he had in mind, because she pulled away.

“Don’t…your back.”

He looked at her wide, dilated pupils and the way she held onto the dash even though she was

sitting in an unmoving vehicle. “I’m good—it’s you I’m not so sure about.” With that, he took her arm,

leaned his shoulder into her middle, and lifted her out of the Jeep. He clamped his right arm around

her hips while her fingers tangled in his beltloops.

“I can walk!”

“Oh, come on. Let me play the hero a little longer.” He kicked the car door shut and took a step

toward the stairwell, giving her a little bounce in the process to adjust her weight to a more even

distribution. He could handle this. No problem.

“Michael…” His name sounded sort of choked. “…don’t want to throw up all over you.”

Okay, slight problem. He stopped. “Are you serious?”

“Uh-huh.”

He loosened his arm from around her waist and slowly lowered her to her feet, holding back a

groan when her soft curves slid over him. She staggered a little and put her hand on his chest for

balance, then blinked up at him and took several deep breaths.

“Better?”

“Mucho.” She let go of his chest, and offered him a sloppy smile when her balance held.

“Awesome. Ready for some stairs?”

Her expression firmed into one of extreme determination, more appropriate to Mount Everest than

Casa Clemente. They made it up to his apartment without him doing much more than occasionally

steering her back on track. She paused at her door and looked at her left side, then her right, and then

at him.

“Your purse is in the car.” He unlocked his door and held it open. “Why don’t you make yourself

comfortable in my place and I’ll go get it.” He wasn’t letting her out of his sight until she’d downed a

Gatorade and a couple painkillers, and kept them down.

“’Kay. Mind if I use your potty?”

He pointed to the hall. “First door on your right.”

While she took care of business, he got a sports drink from the fridge, sat on the couch, and waited.

And waited. He gave it five minutes and then took the drink, walked down the hall, and tapped on the

bathroom door.

“Chloe?”

Chapter Six

A muffled moan came from the other side of the door.

Ah, hell. Michael turned the knob. It gave. He opened the door and found Chloe curled up on the

floor with her forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. “I wish your bathroom

would stop spinning.”

He reached into the medicine cabinet and shook two ibuprofen tablets into his palm. Then he

crouched beside her and rubbed her back. “Sorry. I should have warned you. When you drink too

much, my toilet turns into a teacup ride. Open your eyes. That will help.”

She smiled weakly and fought one bloodshot eye open to stare at him. He held out the ibuprofen.

“Full recovery is a three step process. Step one—the magic pills.”

“Thank you.” She let go of the toilet, sat straighter, and reached for the painkillers with the slow,

carefully executed movements of someone with severely impaired reflexes.

Her fingers brushed his palm as she took the pills, and he flashed back to that afternoon, at the

clinic, feeling those fingers of hers running all over his shoulders and back. An instant twitch in his

shorts told him there was nothing impaired about his reflexes.

“Step two—wash them down with the magic green juice.” He handed her the sports drink he’d

placed on the counter.

“Uh-uh,” she groaned. “One sip of that stuff and I’ll hurl for sure.”

“Nah. I’ve put the magic green juice to the test more times than I care to count, and it never lets me

down. Plus, it’s loaded with electrolytes. You need them.”

She looked at him as if he was asking her to swallow live cockroaches with bilge water, but tossed

the pills in her mouth, chased them with a swig of the Gatorade, and made a face. “God, that’s nasty.”

He fought a smile and lost. On top of margaritas and stomach acid, it probably fell short of the

refreshing lemon-lime citrus splash the bottle promised. Feeling for her, he reached out and brushed

her hair off her forehead. “Drink half and I’ll backfill the bottle with water.”

She took another big gulp and swallowed before answering, “What’s step three?”

“Step three is the most magical step of all.” He dug into the drawer below the sink, withdrew his

hand with a flourish, and handed her a new toothbrush, still in the box. “Toothpaste is on the counter.”

Those beautiful, pink lips curved into a grateful smile as she accepted the toothbrush. “I love you.”

The words came out soft and heartfelt, which he knew was part of the joke. But in his imagination,

he heard her saying the phrase again, in a breathless, husky voice as he emptied himself inside her.

Disconcerted by the detour his brain took, he forced a laugh. “Yeah, I know all about your kind of

love.” But now he had the image of them stuck in his head—her writhing under him, panting his name

—and a completely out-of-line hard-on that wouldn’t back down. Time for a little more distance than

his bathroom afforded. He stood, held out a hand, and pulled her to her feet. The forward momentum

caused her to bump into him, and the slight impact of her breasts against his chest sent his dick

surging. Still playing with fire, McCade.

One glance at her face settled him a little, because she was clearly fighting just to keep her eyes

open. While he watched she yawned and rubbed the heel of her hand over her forehead.

“Brush up, drink some more of that,” he pointed to the Gatorade, “and make yourself at home. I’ll

get your purse. Be right back.”

Her “Thank you,” followed him out of the bathroom.

It only took a few minutes to retrieve her bag, but total silence greeted him when he entered the

apartment.

“Chloe?”

She didn’t reply. He dropped her purse on the counter and absently rolled his shoulder as he

stepped past the kitchen and dining area, and into the hall. A few steps later, he saw her—sacked out

on his bed. Good girl, he thought when he spotted the empty bottle of Gatorade sitting on his

nightstand.

He pushed the door all the way open and walked in. She laid on her side, facing the door, her

amber-honey curls curtaining her face. She’d folded her right arm across her chest, pushing her

breasts together so they swelled above the neckline of her top. Her long, white skirt twisted around

her, exposing smooth, tanned legs. If he’d been a painter, he would have pulled out his easel and

brushes, captured her in oils, and called it, “Venus Sleeping Off a Rough Night.”

Instead he touched her shoulder. “Chloe.”

Her only answer was a light snore. Well, shit. Talk about playing with fire. Still, he’d been trained

to answer when duty called, no matter how steep the personal sacrifice. He slipped her shoes off and

resisted the temptation to run his hands along her arches, up her calves, and…focus on the mission,

marine.

Right. Her clothes were a little worse for wear, but he could probably let her sleep in her skirt and

sweater. Even as the thought went through his head, she flopped onto her back. The long, flowy skirt

tangled around her, and, with a frustrated sound, she kicked in an effort to free her legs. Okay, fine.

He’d help her out of her skirt, go take a cold shower, and bed down in the second bedroom he used as

an office.

Luckily, the skirt had a stretchy waist so he didn’t have to turn her every which way trying to find

clasps and zippers and whatnot. He simply curled his fingers under the waistband and pulled it down

and off. She woke up enough to help him by raising her hips and then settled back against the bed,

with one arm flung over her head and the other across her stomach, wearing just her formfitting top,

and the pink thong forever etched in his memory from their afternoon encounter at the massage clinic.

She made another aggrieved sound, and, before he could figure out what was disturbing her, she

wrestled her sweater and bra over her head. He caught the flash and sway of her perfect breasts, and

then she turned onto her stomach, drew one leg up, and snugged into the bed. The sweater and bra

tangled around her arm like a bulky bracelet, but he barely noticed because he couldn’t seem to tear

his attention away from the hummingbird.

The longest, coldest shower in the world wouldn’t fix this. New plan. He tugged the sweater and

bra off her arm, carried her clothes to the laundry closet in his hall, and dumped them in the washer.

After adding some detergent, he set the thing to go and walked back to his bedroom. The tattoo

greeted him like a colorful sentinel, taunting him with everything he couldn’t see, and definitely

couldn’t touch.

A quick dig through his dresser drawer produced a clean T-shirt. She was a head shorter than him

and half his weight. The damn thing would cover her like a tent.

He sat on the bed beside her. “Chloe, wake up a sec. I have a nightshirt for you.”

“Wha?” She rolled onto her back, giving him a bird’s eye view of her breasts. The skin there was

shades lighter than rest of her, soft and strangely vulnerable. Her nipples tightened against the cool air

of his bedroom and saliva pooled in his mouth, as he remembered the sweet taste of those hard,

incredibly responsive peaks. He closed his eyes and ground his teeth together. When he thought he

could risk it, he opened his eyes and looked down at her, surprised to find foggy, heavy-lidded eyes

staring back at him.

“I’m going to help you sit up and put this T-shirt on. Is that all right?”

She nodded.

He eased an arm around her waist, careful not to touch anywhere that would torture him more than

he already was, and lifted her into a sitting position. Immediately she closed her eyes and turned into

his chest. “Oh, that’s bad.”

“What’s bad?” He pulled the shirt over her head.

“Bad spins.” She let him work her arms through the sleeves and then latched onto him again. “Don’t

go. You keep things still.”

“Chloe—”

She burrowed into him and sighed. “Don’t go.”

He sighed and looked down at himself. His T-shirt and jeans were worse for wear, too. Resigned

to a sleepless night spent ignoring a persistent hard-on, he stripped down to his boxers, settled back

against the pillow, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder while she nestled against his side. So

much for not torturing himself.

…

Chloe didn’t need to open her eyes to know she wasn’t in Kansas anymore. First off, a warm, solid

weight lay across the curve of her hip, trapping her to an unfamiliar mattress. Second, whatever she

had on didn’t feel like her tank top and sleep shorts. Third, the rock-hard appendage poking her butt

most definitely didn’t belong to Ready-Teddy.

She blinked her eyes open, squinting against the pale light prying through a slim gap between dark

blue curtains. The bedroom she saw by the dawn’s bleary light was way too tidy and shipshape to

ever be mistaken for hers. A glance down solved two of the mysteries. She wore an oversize white T-

shirt, and a strong, muscular, unquestionably masculine arm accounted for the weight across her hip.

A disjointed image flashed through her mind…her, tossing her cookies in front of the Stars & Bars

while Michael supported her and held her hair away from her face.

Oh, Chloe, nice going. She closed her eyes and stifled a groan, but the hazy memories just kept

playing behind her eyelids. He’d driven her home, found her a toothbrush, coaxed a couple painkillers

and some foul-tasting juice down her throat, and helped her change into one of his T-shirts. Then he’d

tucked her into bed, but the darn thing had been spinning so badly, she’d clung to him and begged him

to make it stop. The last thing she remembered was a strong, steady heartbeat under her cheek and his

calm voice telling her everything was going to be okay.

Except everything wasn’t okay. She drew an unsteady breath and faced facts. After the debacle at

the clinic yesterday, she was well and truly fucked.

The arm draped over her hip slipped into the curve of her waist, and tightened, pulling her back

against a solid frame. She traced a small, light scar on the side of his wrist and wondered if he’d

gotten in some kind of hand-to-hand, marine-style, combat. He murmured something in his sleep that

sounded suspiciously like, “Right there,” and then his lower body shifted too. Next thing she knew,

the head of his erection nudged the gap at the top of her legs. She turned her face into the pillow to

stifle a moan as his shaft slid between her thighs. After the events of the last thirty-six hours, one

highly frustrating irony remained inescapable. She was well and truly fucked—in every way except

literally.

When a big hand smoothed up her torso to torment her breast and another slid down her abdomen

and between her thighs, she pressed her hands over his, tipped her head back, and let the moan come.

The sudden tightening of his hold told her she’d woken him. Screw it. Might as well accomplish the

one thing she’d set out to do.

She twisted around until they lay face-to-face and admired his shadowed jaw, alluringly bed-

rumpled hair, and sleepy, slightly cautious stare. “How do you feel?” he asked.

She swept the T-shirt over her head, tossed it aside, and then guided his hand back between her

legs to let him figure the answer to that question out for himself.

Didn’t take him long. He closed his eyes and groaned. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“It’s the best idea I’ve had all day.”

He laughed. “Yeah, but it’s only six a.m.” Then his eyes popped open when she reached down to

where he was jutting out from the flap in his boxers and wrapped her hand around his cock. “Oh…

Christ. You…ah…dammit…you had a lot to drink last night. I don’t want to take advantage—”

“Fine. I’ll do the taking.” With that, she pushed him onto his back, worked his shorts down, and

straddled his hips. His hands landed on the tops of her thighs. For a moment she worried he’d lift her

off, but then those hands clasped her hips and rocked her against him.

Their sighs overlapped, and then his turned into a low curse when she shifted around. “Wait,” he

said, but she ignored him and kept right on adjusting her position until she had him knocking at

heaven’s door. He felt so good under her she wondered if she’d go off like dynamite just from the

burning heat of him.

“Wait.” The word came out more firmly this time, and, to her abject dismay, he tightened his hands

on her waist and lifted her until she hovered above him.

A humiliatingly desperate sound escaped her throat and she pushed down in an effort to reclaim her

seat. “Don’t you want me?”

The world spun and the next thing she knew she was flat on her back, pinned under two hundred

pounds of unyielding marine. “I have wanted you nonstop since the second I met you. It’s relentless

and painful and bordering on crazy.” He bit her earlobe hard enough to give her a hint of the torture

he’d endured. She gasped and twined her legs around his waist.

“For the last two days, all I’ve dreamed about is you. In those dreams you climb on top of me, and I

slide into you until you’re so full you’re about to burst. I go as deep as I can, and then I hold still and

let you use my cock like your personal toy until you’ve gotten off to your heart’s content. When you

swear you’ve wrung yourself out, you can’t possibly take anymore I flip us around, bend you over my

bed, and prove you wrong. I pound us both straight on through until we come so hard we can’t walk.”

She swallowed and somehow found her voice. “That sounds”—his lips burned a path along her

jaw and stopped just short of her mouth—“good.”

“It sure as hell does, but we’ll have to plan better for that particular adventure because”—he kissed

her fast and a little savagely, and then broke away and looked down at her—“no condom.”

She blinked while his words sank in and then groaned under the weight of her disappointment.

Condom…oh yeah… That. Something they’d neglected during the near miss at the clinic, and really,

she knew better after all the crap Drew had pulled. By some miracle, she’d avoided a nasty parting

gift from her ex, and when she’d stared at that clean bill of health, she’d made a promise to every

divine being in the universe never to test her luck again. She had a whole box of condoms at her

apartment, but something told her if she walked out his door, she wouldn’t be coming back. Getting

tangled up with a guy who had the power to make her completely forget her basic, common-sense

rules—little fundamentals like no sex with a client and no unprotected sex—probably wasn’t the best

idea.

…

Michael counted the pulses fluttering at the base of Chloe’s throat and waited for her to say

something. Something like, “I have a condom in my purse,” would be ideal. Instead, she shook her

head, muttered, “Twelve months and counting,” and shot him a resigned look. Then she added, “You

should lie back. This position puts a lot of strain on the base of your spine.”

“I feel fine.” He lifted and lowered his hips to prove it.

Her hand settled protectively over his lower back. “Don’t. I’m glad you’re not in pain, but you’ve

still got to be careful until the swelling in the disc subsides.”

“Chloe, I appreciate your concern,” and since it was genuine, he shifted off her, then sat up and

faced her while he spoke, “but I don’t need you to nurse me. I think the better question to be asking

this morning, is, ‘How are you?’”

The muted light from the not-quite-closed curtains didn’t hide the fact that her gray eyes clouded,

and she developed a sudden fascination with the wall just behind him. “I’m okay.”

He ran a hand over her hair. She looked so forlorn, he couldn’t help himself. “Did you get fired?”

She blew out a breath and glanced over at him. The corner of her mouth curved up into a phantom

smile. “Big time.”

If she’d looked forlorn before, she looked downright devastated now. Normally, he was nobody’s

cheerleader, but for some stupid reason he said, “Don’t worry. You’ll find another job. You’re an

amazing masseuse.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She ran her hand over her face, blinked a few times, and shook her head. “What’s

not a maybe is I have some packing to do.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. She got up from the bed, and he took one moment to appreciate the

picture she presented, all tousled and tumbled and gorgeously, unselfconsciously naked. Then he

reached out and caught her arm. “Why packing? Where are you going?”

“Michael.” She swung her head around and looked at him.

“Chloe,” he replied.

“This is not your problem.”

“I’ll be the judge. Where are you going?”

She plopped back down on the bed and shrugged. “My employer is a temp agency called Helping

Hands. When they booked me for the job at the clinic, they also arranged for things like my rental car

and the apartment here at Casa Clemente. Per the terms of my contract, I have to turn in the car and be

out of the apartment twenty-four hours following the end of my assignment. Otherwise, they’ll start

eviction proceedings and I can kiss good-bye any chance of working with them in the future.”

“Twenty-four hours? That’s a pretty miserly amount of time.”

Chloe shrugged again. “It’s standard in the traveling healthcare industry. Generally, it’s not a

problem because I know the assignment end date, I have a new assignment to go to, and I plan

accordingly. This time, however…things didn’t go as planned.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ll go”—her eyes wandered to his fascinating blank wall—“um, home, I guess…until they find me

a new assignment.”

A lie if he’d ever heard one. He took her chin and waited until she looked at him. “Where will you

go,” he repeated softly.

“I don’t know, okay? But that’s not your problem.” She pulled away and started searching the

sheets. “Where in God’s name are my clothes?”

He stayed on mission. “Do you need a loan to get home?”

“No.” Her expression reflected a combination of pride and panic. “I have to get out of here.” She

abandoned her search for her clothes and started to stand.

He caught her shoulder and guided her back down onto the bed, then kept his hand on her arm to

hold her in place. “Chloe, I can’t let you walk away without some assurance you’re doing it safely.”

He bent his head slightly so they were eye to eye. “Your situation is at least half my fault. Let me be at

least half the solution.”

The energy seemed to bleed out of her as they stared at each other. Finally, she said, “That’s very

gentlemanly of you, but you can’t loan me the money to get home because there is no home. Home is

my next job, wherever and whenever that may be.”

Oh, shit. “Hell of a way to live.”

“It worked just fine for the past year,” she shot back, defensiveness in every line of her body.

“Sorry I don’t have the recommended six-to-nine months of emergency savings banked, but times have

been a little tough here at Chloe Kincaid Enterprises due to factors I like to call NOYB.”

He ignored the sarcasm and kept working toward a solution. “You getting fired and kicked out of

your apartment is my business.”

She shook her head, sending tendrils of hair dancing around her bare shoulders.

Stubborn. Fine and dandy. He could be stubborn, too. “What about your folks?”

“No,” she said firmly, and her closed-off expression told him he’d hit a dead end there.

“I could give you the money for a hotel—”

“Hell no. I’m not accepting money from you.”

“I can afford it.” True. His pay grade more than covered his needs. Plus, thanks to an investment

he’d made in his little brother, Logan’s, company, he had a healthy and ever-growing savings.

“I can’t afford it,” she shot back and slapped her palm against her chest. “I can’t let you subsidize

me financially because you have a misplaced sense of guilt. My integrity can’t afford it.” She broke

off and drew in deep breath. “Look, I’m not destitute. I have a few hundred bucks. Hopefully that will

last me if I stay somewhere cheap and if my recruiter comes through quick with a new assignment.”

“That’s too many ifs. I can’t do that.” He didn’t care if he sounded like a controlling asshole. The

idea of letting her walk out his door without a decent plan burned a hole through his gut. He told

himself the guilt would eat at him like acid, but a small voice in the back of his brain insisted the burn

came from something more than guilt. Duty, in a twisted way—a moral obligation to alleviate a

situation he’d helped to create. Fuck it, she needed a safe place to stay, and he could provide it.

“Stay here.” The words were out of his mouth before his brain fully vetted them, and as soon as he

uttered the invitation his better judgment objected. First rule of combat—don’t engage without an

exit strategy. Where is your exit strategy? The simple, obvious answer stared back at him. He didn’t

need one, because Chloe lived her life like one big exit strategy. She didn’t have a home, didn’t want

a home, and wasn’t looking for anything except a place to perch until she migrated to her next

assignment. He’d reached the point in his life where staying put sounded better than migrating, but

she’d run from anything remotely resembling conventional stability.

“No. I couldn’t.”

See? “You could. I’ve got two bedrooms, if that’s your issue. You’re welcome to the one I use as

my office. Stay until your agency finds you another job.”

“That could take weeks.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged to convey a lack of concern with the time line. She obviously liked to

keep her roots shallow and her interactions casual. He had to make her see this fit those goals.

Those smoke-and-mirror eyes of hers stared into his for a long time. “God,” she covered her face

with her hands, briefly, “I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. Are you sure you want to invite

a disaster like me into your life?”

No. He was anything but sure. He’d finally gotten a post he could settle into for a while—assuming

he could keep his shit together, get back on flight status, and avoid a court-martial in the meantime.

Simple enough goals, yet since meeting Chloe he’d put every single one of them in jeopardy. Her

impulsive nature, no matter how sexy and charming, created problems for a man trying to stay on the

straight and narrow. But that didn’t give him an excuse to turn his back on her. “Chloe, I’ve piloted

supplies to red cross stations in areas struck by floods, earthquakes, and hurricanes. I’ve dropped aid

packages at refugee camps. I’ve flown in and out of war zones. I’ve seen disaster close up, and I’m

pretty sure I can handle whatever you throw my way.”

The comment must have put things into context for her, because she gave him a weak smile. “You

think?”

Again, he wasn’t so sure, but he nodded with a confidence he didn’t feel and returned her smile. “I

guarantee. Stay as long as you need to. No strings attached.” Laughable addition, considering a minute

ago they’d been one thin layer of latex away from balling each other blind, but, technically, they were

not lovers and he didn’t want her to think his hospitality hinged on them changing that status.

She gnawed her lip and her eyes darted to the right as she considered his words. He followed her

line of vision until his gaze hit a photo on the dresser. A snapshot of his first day on the job at Camp

Pendleton, showing him in front of a chopper, shaking hands with his CO—his ultraconservative, by-

the-book, CO, who did not believe in officers under his command using the government’s Basic

Allowance for Housing to facilitate cohabitation outside the sanctity of marriage.

He cringed, thinking how quickly this new cohabitation development would travel from Mrs.

Waverly, to his CO’s wife, to his CO, and how quickly his cleared-to-fly paperwork would get the

downward shuffle on his CO’s desk. Quickly, and possibly permanently, if Sempler decided to report

him for yesterday’s indiscretion. Unless… “Make that, no strings except one.”

Chapter Seven

Chloe blinked at the empty air where Michael had been mere seconds ago. He’d just offered her the

answer to her prayers—a safe, free, no-strings-attached place to stay—and then bolted off the bed

like his nonexistent pants were on fire.

He strode across the room and dug something out of the top drawer of the dresser. She admired the

play of muscles under bronze skin, and the view of his top-drawer ass.

What the hell was he looking for? He’d mentioned something about strings and started rifling

through a drawer. Did he plan to literally…tie her up? He walked back to the bed before she could

decide whether the thought excited her or freaked her out. Then she let go of the quandary, because the

sight of him closing in, wearing an intense expression, his dog tags, and nothing else, effectively

scrambled her brain. He knelt by the side of the bed and propped his closed fist on her knee.

“Let me rephrase,” he said, flashing a smile that tried to convince her he was harmless.

She wasn’t fooled. He knew how to unlock handcuffs with a hairpin in under three minutes. He

knew how to unlock her orgasm one-handed in under a minute. He was so not harmless.

“There is one tiny string attached.” He looked up at her from beneath his dark, unfairly thick lashes.

Then he opened his fist to reveal a small, black velvet box. A flick of his fingers snapped the lid back

and a diamond solitaire she estimated somewhere north of a carat twinkled at her.

Her hand flew to her heart at the same time her gaze flew to his. “That’s a tiny string?”

The smile tugging his lips broadened, but he still didn’t look harmless. “My CO disapproves of

cohabitating. He’s got the final authority over my return to the cockpit, so I’d rather not do anything he

disapproves of. I think if we”—he broke off and looked at her with those deep, dark, mesmerizing

eyes—went the engagement route, it might mitigate any potential negative consequences.”

“You want us to pretend—”

“Appearances only,” he inserted quickly. “I doubt we’ll have to out-and-out lie to anyone, but Mrs.

Waverly is eagle-eyed and she’s also my CO’s wife’s best friend. We’ll just put my grandmother’s

ring on your finger, move you in, and then, when you get your new assignment, I’ll take the ring back

and we’ll go our separate ways. If anyone asks what happened, I’ll say things just didn’t work out.”

No. No. Hell to the No. Just the thought of putting the ring on her finger made her palms sweat. “I

can’t. Me staying here is a bad idea if it puts your career at risk and forces you to lie.”

He looked down at the ring and then back up at her, and his pensive expression made her realize he

was debating telling her something. She had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going to like it.

“I didn’t want to mention this, because it’s my problem, not yours, but I could end up in serious

trouble for what happened yesterday at the clinic. The Corps frowns on its members committing acts

of indecency or indecorum. If Sempler lodges a complaint, my CO will have to address it.”

Shit. She’d been so selfishly fixated on her own problems she hadn’t spared a thought about how

yesterday’s recklessness might impact Michael. “H-how serious?” But she already knew.

“Conduct unbecoming an officer could get me dismissed, and possibly thrown in the brig.”

“Oh, my God.” Her stomach turned to lead and dropped into her feet. “You could get dishonorably

discharged and locked up because of this?”

“It’s an unlikely outcome…but the possibility exists. Right now, if Sempler tells my CO he walked

into a treatment room and found USMC Major Michael McCade committing an indecent act with his

massage therapist, it sounds pretty bad. The whole situation takes on a slightly different character if

he walked into a treatment room and found me engaged in what I didn’t intend to be a public display

of affection with my fiancée.”

“I see your point, but it’s still dishonest. Your grandmother would be rolling in her grave.”

“We’re not hurting anyone by massaging the truth, and my grandmother would understand. When I

was about five, I took this ring from her jewelry box and I buried it in the backyard because I was

pretending to be a pirate. When she discovered what I’d done, she calmly helped me dig it up and

gave me a bunch of coins to bury instead. I complained the coins weren’t as good a treasure because

they weren’t sparkly like the ring. She laughed and told me I could have the ring when she was done

with it, and, at that point, I could bury it if I wanted. A few years ago…” He trailed off and

swallowed. “A few years ago she was done with it.” He swiped his thumb lightly over the flat facet

at the top of the diamond. “True to her word, she left the ring to me. I figure as long as I don’t bury the

thing, I’m exceeding her expectations.”

Now she was choked up, a little because a girl who owed so much to her own grandma couldn’t

help but be affected by the obvious affection between Michael and his. But more because both

grandmother and grandson measured the value of the treasure in terms of the memories it held than the

intrinsic worth of the precious materials.

She wrapped her arms around herself and wished she either had a completely clear head or a much

worse hangover. Instead she just felt slow and fuzzy…and freezing. Despite the heat coming off his

body, her skin chilled. Nerves. The idea of a commitment—even a fake one—left her bone cold. But

her alternatives sucked.

Her parents had reclaimed their own lives the moment they’d divorced and dumped her on

Grandma. She wasn’t about to ask them for any favors. Her friendships were loose and casual. After a

year of traveling from job to job, they were all pretty much Facebook friends—“like” a photo,

comment on a status—not the kind of people she could call out of the blue and say, “Hey, can I come

stay with you for who knows how long, and, by the way, can you lend me the money to get there?”

Thanks to Drew, no credit-card company would touch her with a ten-foot pole.

Even if she could scrape together an alternative, could she really leave Michael twisting in the

wind, when something as simple as pretending to be engaged for a couple weeks could protect his

career?

She dropped her arms and sat a little straighter. No, she couldn’t. Being a free bird didn’t mean

flying off and leaving a stand-up guy in a precarious position. A short-term fake engagement was a

solution to a problem, not an emotional investment or a threat to her freedom. Granted, it might have

been a risky proposition for commitment-craving Chloe, but older, wiser Chloe had learned how to

glide through life without getting ensnared in emotional traps.

“What do you say, Chloe?” Michael prompted. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever asked to wear my

ring. Don’t start me off with a bad track record.” His grin left her a little off-center. She looked down

at herself, then back at him.

“I wish I didn’t feel so naked at the moment.”

He slipped the ring on her shaking finger. “There. Now you’re not naked.”

“Perfect fit,” she whispered. It was. A shiver scurried up her spine. The sparkling traditional

solitaire looked and felt more at home on her finger than her actual engagement ring ever had during

the entire time she’d worn the thing.

“My grandmother had slim, gentle hands, like you. It looks good on you,” he finished softly, almost

reluctantly, and Chloe relaxed a bit. He wasn’t as unfazed about their “engagement” as he seemed.

Why that realization made her feel better, she couldn’t say, but there it was.

“Thank you. I’ll take good care of it, and, rest assured, you’ll get it back in the same beautiful

condition. I promise.”

His grin reappeared. “I’m not worried.” Then he stood, and the play of sinew and muscle under

flesh momentarily emptied her mind. “Now that we’re officially engaged, wanna move in with me?”

“I—um, yes, I guess I do.”

“Awesome.” He sat down next to her on the bed and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It

read 6:58.

“I have to be at the base by eight,” he said, “which means I need to hit the shower and get going, but

I’ll be back by four-thirty, so if there’s anything you need help moving, just leave it until I’m home,

okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeated, but he didn’t move. He just stared at her.

She stared back. “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”

“Yes. Absolutely. It’s the least I can do.”

Tiny flecks of gold glowed near the perimeter of his deep brown irises. How had she overlooked

such a hypnotic detail? “Well…thank you.” Don’t kiss him, her little voice warned, but her body

didn’t listen. It leaned in until her lips brushed his and her breasts rested against his chest.

A wide palm cupped the back of her head and he deepened the kiss. Her hands landed on the steady

shelf of his shoulders and her happy nipples tightened to eager peaks. She shifted closer and rubbed

them over his pecs.

His low, rumbling growl cut through the otherwise-silent room. She trembled as his hand wandered

down her back and over her butt, and tucked one knee under her, preparing to crawl onto his lap when

the alarm buzzed. They broke apart, both breathing heavy, and then spoke at once.

“Shit—”

“You’re going to be late—”

He reached over and hit the alarm. She scooped the T-shirt she’d borrowed off the floor, turned it

right side out, and pulled it on. By the time she’d swept it over her head, he was out of the bed. “I

wish I could top off my proposal with breakfast, but I’ve got to shower and get going. Do you need to

use the bathroom first?”

She stood, surprised by her wobbly legs, and walked over to stand opposite him. “No. I’m good.

You go ahead.” His shoulders seemed to take up all the space in the bedroom doorway. “Is it all right

if I use your phone to call my recruiter?”

“Chloe.”

“What?”

“Mi casa es su casa.” He turned and then shot a grin over his shoulder before he walked into the

bathroom and shut the door.

The breath left her lungs in a shuddery exhale. “Right.” She made her way out to the main part of the

apartment. Heavens, the extreme tidiness of the bedroom carried over into the rest of the rooms. Clean

surfaces, clean walls, no clutter. Someone would be getting his entire security deposit back at the end

of his tenancy.

The phone sat on the counter between the kitchen and dining area, just as it did in her apartment.

She perched on one of the two high stools tucked under the counter, lifted the receiver, and dialed.

Lynne answered on the first ring. “Helping Hands, how can I help you?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Oh. My. God. Chloe! Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. In another

couple hours I was going to file a missing-person report on you.”

Shit. Guilt landed on her like a scratchy blanket. “I’m so sorry, Lynne. I didn’t mean to put you in a

panic. After the debacle with Sempler, I couldn’t face you or myself…or anything more judgmental

than a pitcher of margaritas, so I just kind of dove into one for the night.”

“Sweetie, I don’t judge. But I do worry.”

“I know. On top of being a lousy employee, I’m a horrible friend. I should have called you. I didn’t

think of anyone except myself and how I could possibly erase the whole humiliating incident from my

mind.”

“You’re not a horrible friend. You just tend to forget there are people around who care about you.

Did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“The margarita strategy.”

“For a little while, yeah, but ultimately, no. Tell me, am I still employable through Helping

Hands?”

“Yes.”

“Really? I can’t believe Sempler’s not going to demand my head on a platter.” Her voice cracked

and she winced. But still, it was too good to be true. The guy loved to complain and, God knew, she’d

given him a legitimate and grievous complaint.

“Not after I questioned why you were still in the clinic at five thirty—a full half an hour past your

scheduled shift end. That’s when he mentioned maybe he hadn’t been on site precisely at the end of

your shift to sign off on your time card, and I mentioned if your time card came back to us with

anything less than a five thirty end time, that would be fraud. I went on to mention if I spoke to you and

discovered any of your prior time cards reflected inaccurate shift end times, that would also be fraud,

and the clinic would ultimately be liable to Helping Hands for any overtime and statutory penalties

we had to pay to you as a result of said fraud. His desire to complain suddenly evaporated.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. But still, Chlo, this is no quid pro quo. If that snake squeezed extra time out of you

without noting it on your time card, I need to know, because if you’re at the job site, you’re on the

clock, and we have to pay you for the time. Whether you’re behaving professionally while on the

clock is a completely separate issue.”

Chloe flinched at the last statement, but knew she’d earned it. “My prior time cards are pretty

accurate. Yesterday was the first really bold attempt on Sempler’s part to score some free coverage.”

“Good. Consider yourself paid. The extra half hour will be in your check. If anything like that ever

happens again, tell me about it right away, okay? Handling weasels like Sempler when they pull their

crap is my job.”

“Okay,” she agreed, relieved to note Lynne appeared to believe they’d be working together again

soon. “Thank you, Lynne. I’m really grateful. I don’t deserve to walk away this scot-free after what

happened. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do. It’s called going a year without sex. Makes you do crazy things. But don’t put yourself in a

compromising position with a client again, ever, because in this case, two strikes and you’re out.”

“I know. And I won’t. I promise.”

“Take my advice and get yourself laid, girl. You are, by all accounts, dangerously hormonal at the

moment.”

She winced at the truth of the observation, then arranged her face into a more neutral expression as

Michael strode into the room, decked out in light-toned fatigues.

“Maybe,” she said into the phone.

“No maybe about it,” Lynne replied.

Michael dangled a key on a red-and-gold Marine Corps key ring and mouthed the word door. She

nodded and closed her fingers around the shiny metal. He dropped his arm, but his gaze roved over

her like a warm hand, reminding her she wore nothing but his thin, white T-shirt.

“Is he there right now? He’s there right now, isn’t he? Is he naked?”

“What?”

His mouth curved into a lazy smile and he leaned close. Chloe swallowed and tightened her hold on

the phone. Was he going to kiss her? His lips touched her ear and he whispered, “Your clothes are in

the dryer.” Then he stepped back, put on a pair of silver-rimmed aviators, gave her a quick salute, and

headed to the entryway.

“Chloe, is he naked? Yes or no. Give me something!”

He stopped at the door, turned and gave her one last look. Then he was gone.

“He just left.”

“You let him walk out the door naked?”

“Get off the naked. He was wearing cammies and boots.” She shivered a little remembering how

tall and broad and capable he’d looked, especially with the slow grin.

“Hmm. That’s good too. Keep going,” Lynne encouraged.

“I believe there was some kind of hat, and, this is important—aviator sunglasses.”

“Be still my heart. Although, to be honest, it’s not my heart I’m feeling at the moment. Whew. Nice

work.”

“Thank you. Do you happen to know if Sempler intends to file a complaint against Michael?”

“I haven’t a clue. The clinic is base-affiliated and I don’t know how that sort of thing works.

Michael’s not my employee, so…”

“Yeah, I understand.” She couldn’t eliminate the possibility. “Since I still am, thank God, when do

you think you can place me in another assignment?”

“Right now, it looks like we’ll have something at a fancy spa in New Mexico in four weeks

because they have a therapist scheduled to start maternity leave.”

Four weeks! She gripped the phone until her fingers hurt. She’d figured half that time, at worst. “Is

there anything sooner? I don’t care where. I’ll take a cruise ship, if I have to.”

“You get seasick.”

“I get poverty sick even worse. I just drained my savings down to practically my last penny paying

my grandma’s funeral expenses and a huge chunk of the old Visa debt.”

“Fuck Visa, Chloe. Drew ran up the card; he should be paying it off.”

“Yeah, but that’s never going to happen, and I’d like to qualify for credit again sometime this

century, so I took a gamble and wrote the check. I risked being a little cash poor in the near term

because I still had a bunch of weeks left on this assignment and figured I’d have time to build up my

cushion. Now is literally the worst time for me to be out of work.”

“Yikes. Sorry to hear that, but there’s nothing else available right now. Don’t panic though.

Sometimes start dates move up when maternity leave’s involved. I’ll keep you at the top of my list if

anything comes up. In the meantime, file for unemployment.”

“I will, but it takes a couple weeks for those payments to kick in, and then the benefit is just a

fraction of my normal income. It won’t cover—”

“Yeah, I hear what you’re saying. You have to find somewhere to live for four weeks. I wish I

could let you stay in the apartment, but I don’t have the authority. If we make an exception for you,

we’ll never be able to enforce the vacate clause again. You also need to turn in the rental car. Can

you take care of that today?”

“Yes,” she replied, cringing at the impact on her tight budget of taking a cab to the Stars & Bars to

pick up her car and then cabbing it back to Casa Clemente from the car-rental agency.

“Do you need a loan to bridge you until the new assignment starts? Our savings is a little on the thin

side since we bought the new house, but I could wire you, like, five hundred bucks.”

So tempting, but she shook her head. “Thanks, I really appreciate the offer, but no. The housing

problem is taken care of. Michael is letting me stay with him until I have a new assignment.”

“Oh re-ally? That’s a very interesting development. And exactly what do you do to earn your

keep?”

“Nothing. It’s not like that. He insisted there are no strings attached.” But as she said the words, the

gleaming rock on her ring finger snagged her attention. Temporary, she reassured herself, because her

skin started to get that too-tight feeling. “He feels guilty, that’s all, and he’s very…persuasive, but I

don’t want to wear out my welcome, and four weeks is more than enough time to make him sorry he

ever opened his mouth. Please, Lynne, if there’s any way to get me into a new assignment sooner…”

“I will. I swear. You’ll be the first person I call. In the meantime,” a teasing tone crept into her

voice, “enjoy playing house with Major Hottie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“What wouldn’t you do?”

“Good point. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Chloe smiled, but then sobered. “I’m really sorry for getting fired and, well…the circumstances…”

“I’m sorry you got fired too, Chlo, but hey, look on the bright side.”

“There’s a bright side here?”

“Sure. At least now you know you’re not unfuckable.”

Chapter Eight

Michael logged off his computer and rolled his chair away from his desk, all the while trying his best

to ignore the dull, persistent ache that had crept into his lower back sometime during the afternoon. He

refused to acknowledge it with more than a careful stretch because his back was getting better,

dammit. It had to be. If he spent another week navigating nothing more exciting than the stacks of

paper on his desk, a herniated disc would be the least of his worries. He’d go bat-shit crazy.

Think about something else. Left to their own devices, his deviant brain cells called up a memory

of waking up wrapped around Chloe, one hand fully occupied with her soft, bare breast, the other

cupping her warm, wet sex, and his cock snug in the enticing little cleft of her ass. What was she

doing right now? Get your ass home and the answer could be you.

The prospect propelled him out of his office and down the hall toward the exit. He meant what he’d

said that morning about there being no strings attached to her staying with him until her next

assignment came through, but the sparks between them combusted with the least little provocation,

and if she decided to play with fire…he’d better stop at the PX on the way home and pick up some

condoms…

“Major, are you headed out?”

At the question, Michael turned to see Colonel Harding coming down the corridor toward him. The

colonel wore his characteristically severe expression, reinforced by a crew cut the color and sheen of

stainless steel and eyes like sharp, blue lasers. The man managed to look spit-shined even in his

utility uniform.

“Yes, sir, I was. What can I do for you?”

Harding drew even with him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll walk out with you,” he said

and fell into step beside him. As they approached the glass doors leading to the parking area, the

colonel continued, “I understand congratulations are in order.”

Michael opened the door and held it. “Congratulations?”

“Loretta tells me you got engaged recently.”

Holy shit, Mrs. Waverly worked fast. “Um, yes. Very recently, sir. Mrs. Harding’s information-

gathering skills continue to impress.”

The colonel beamed a little at that. “They do. They do indeed. Her entertaining skills impress as

well. She’d like to have you and your bride-to-be…ah…Cody?”

“Chloe,” Michael corrected, as they continued out to the parking lot. The late-afternoon sun beat

down on the asphalt. His gut started to churn.

“Chloe, right. The missus would like to have you and Chloe over to the house tomorrow night for a

little get-together to celebrate your engagement.”

“Sir, that’s very nice of her, but, please, don’t feel you need to go to any trouble—”

“No trouble at all, Major. Something you need to know about women, given you’re about to marry

one—they love to entertain. Loretta won’t take no for an answer.”

What a nightmare. “Well, in that case, sir”—he drew in a fortifying breath—“name the time, and

we’ll be there.”

The colonel laughed and stopped by his car. “Son, you got a lot to learn, don’t you? I remember

those days…vaguely. Go home and check with Chloe to make sure you’re free for a barbecue at your

CO’s house tomorrow around six-thirty. Send me a text to let me know.”

“Oh. All right, sir. Will do.”

“Excellent. Don’t worry, Marine. We trained you, and you survived. She’ll train you too. How’s

the back?”

“Good. In fact, I plan to ask the doc to sign off on my return to full duty at my appointment next

week. Once he does, I’ll get that directly to you, so you can—”

“Let’s take things one step at a time, Major. Get the all-clear from the doctor and then we’ll talk.”

Harding clapped him on the shoulder again. “Have a good evening.”

“Yes, sir. You too. Give my best to Mrs. Harding.”

Crap, Michael thought as he watched Harding pull out of the lot. So much for his “I doubt we’ll

have to out-and-out lie to anyone” assurance to Chloe. He walked to his car, while his mind raced to

find a graceful way out of the invitation. There wasn’t one unless Chloe scored a new assignment

before Saturday night. Barring a “breakup,” they’d be sitting in the Harding’s backyard, chowing

down on burgers and bullshit while they convinced Mrs. Harding they’d fallen in love at first sight.

He got into his Cherokee, and fought an urge to thunk his head on the steering wheel.

During the drive home he considered how to position the invitation to Chloe. She might be a little

on the wild side, definitely unconventional, and maybe even a bit evasive, but basically a what-you-

see-is-what-you-get kind of girl. She lacked a natural talent for subterfuge. Spending an evening with

the Hardings under false pretenses didn’t sit well with him, and it wouldn’t sit well with her either.

Still, she’d agreed to his one and only request, so…

But even if she cooperated, could they pull off a convincing couple in love? Lust, sure. No need to

put on an act. The chemistry between them was all too real. But love?

He liked women. He admired women. He’d seen more than his fair share of action with the

opposite sex, but he’d never been can’t-live-without-you, want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you

in love. Could he fake the head-over-heels thing well enough to fool a couple who had recently

celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary? Could Chloe?

…

Chloe dragged a hot pink, oversize duffel bag into Michael’s guest bedroom, parked it beside its twin,

and opened the closet. Inside she found a vacuum cleaner and two skeletons—in the form of a pair of

pressed dress uniforms. A panicked voice in her head snapped, What the fuck are you doing getting

involved with a marine? You have no job, no car, you’re in a town you barely know, and you’re

moving in with a guy who’s pledged his soul to Uncle Sam. For a woman who doesn’t want to

repeat her parents’ mistakes, you’re doing a hell of an impression.

She shut the closet, sank to the bed, and rested her forehead on her knees. Deep breaths helped

bring some weight back into her light head and calm her skittering pulse. She wasn’t “getting

involved” with a member of the armed forces. She wasn’t “moving in.” There were precious few

rules in her life, but those two were hard and fast. She was just…hanging out for a while.

Yeah right. You like this guy. You’re attracted to him in a way you haven’t experienced since…

ever. You’ve already let that attraction override caution and good judgment twice, and now you

two are playing house. How long before you’re sharing his bed and forgetting all your hard-and-

fast rules?

Okay, fine, the attraction couldn’t be denied, but whatever happened with Michael would be purely

physical. She wouldn’t forget her rules because this situation was temporary. Four short weeks.

Sooner, with a little luck.

Trouble was, she hadn’t exactly been a luck magnet lately. That had to change. Resolved, she

dropped to her knees, unzipped a duffel bag, and dug around until she found what she was looking for.

The black, patent-leather heels she’d bought a year ago to wear to her interview with Helping Hands.

There she’d been, fresh from filing for divorce, facing down the death of the white-picket fence

fantasy she’d secretly nurtured throughout her bumpy childhood, and Helping Hands had held out the

prospect of an immediate escape from the mess she’d made of her life. Travel. Excitement. Carefree

assignments where she could do some good and then move on. She’d had more riding on the interview

than merely a job. A fresh start and a tangible commitment to make her home within her own heart and

find happiness there—to stop needing someone else to make her feel whole.

The shoes may or may not have made a difference, but her interview with Lynne couldn’t have gone

better. Within a week, she’d been winging her way to Sedona to start her first assignment, and she’d

never looked back.

She slipped the lucky shoes on. The four-inch heels gave her height and confidence. They made her

feel like she was going places without even taking a step. Maybe they looked a little odd with her

cutoffs and tank top, but what the hell. She wasn’t walking the red carpet, just trying to rustle up some

luck.

A few quick strides brought her back to the living room. Decorative pillows, a throw, and various

doodads she’d hauled over from her apartment infused some much-needed color and texture in the

otherwise dull, functional room.

The carpet, however, bore the signs of her trips back and forth. She braved the dreaded guest room

closet, retrieved the vacuum, and grabbed her MP3 player while she was at it. Soon she was singing

about good girls and blurred lines while sucking up the telltale trail of debris running from the guest

room, down the hall, through the living room and to the front door.

Very domestic chore. Sure you haven’t turned into your mother, or worse, started building a

white-picket fence around Michael’s apartment?

Absolutely not. Now shut up. Determined to drown out the useless, negative thoughts, she cranked

the volume up.

…

Michael walked up the stairs to his apartment intensely aware he and Chloe had just over twenty-four

hours to become the perfect couple. Step one, sit down and discuss the situation. Devise a strategy

over dinner. Yeah, that sounded good. Logical. He stuck his key into his lock, realized it was already

unlocked and made a mental note to warn her not to leave the apartment unsecured if she was there

alone. He turned the knob and walked in. “Lucy, I’m home.”

Then he blinked. His formerly orderly, somewhat sparse apartment brimmed with enough colorful

crap to fill a swap meet. He recognized some of it from his brief but memorable visit to her apartment

—the square pillows, the fuzzy throw, an abundance of candles. Where the hell was she planning to

put all this stuff?

Chloe stood in the midst of the disarray, with her back to him, pushing a vacuum. Her hair cascaded

over her shoulders. She wore mile-high shiny black pumps that made his throat go dry, a thin, white

tank top, and the tightest, tiniest Daisy Dukes imaginable. Oblivious to his presence, she shook her

booty and sang off-key to a song streaming into ear buds connected to a player clipped to her hip

pocket. All thoughts of a calm discussion flew right out of his head. The only thoughts left involved

lots of noise, vigorous energy, the creative use of a few of those otherwise pointless pillows…and

deserved a triple-X rating. He also realized he’d forgotten to stop and buy condoms.

She turned, and, in the midst of a mesmerizing hip shake and a painfully flat high note he

nevertheless recognized as, “Bad Romance,” she noticed him standing there. She froze and then

smiled self-consciously. A second later the roar of the vacuum ceased. Into the silence, she shouted,

“Hey, roomie.” She ran a hand through her curls and shook them out. “Jeez, is it four thirty already?

This day totally flew by.”

The volume of her voice told him she had the Gaga cranked to eleven. Did he have a stupid look on

his face? Felt like maybe yes. He pointed to his ear.

She pulled her earphones out and laughed as she brought them together and tucked them under the

strap of her tank top. “Sorry. Kind of a loud homecoming, huh?”

“I’ve flown choppers that made less noise,” he admitted.

That pulled another laugh from her as she tugged the vacuum cleaner cord and yanked it from the

wall socket. “Are you telling me I sing like a rusty engine?”

The reply on the tip of his tongue dissolved when she bent over and started winding the cord around

the vacuum’s holster. The shorts rode up so high they might as well have been a scarf. His heart

stuttered to a stop and then kicked in at triple time as his eyes took a slow tour up her ankles, her

slender calves, and toned thighs, to the half-moons visible below the wash-frayed edge of her cutoffs.

His tongue itched to trace those lush swells.

“Michael?”

“Huh?” He forced his eyes over and found himself trapped in a concerned gray gaze. She’d asked

him something, but he couldn’t for the life of him say what.

Her brows furrowed, which he found strangely adorable. “Are you okay? You look a little…

intense. Is your back bothering you?”

“You may have to get used to this look on my face.”

Her worried frown deepened, and she slowly straightened and faced him. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“This is how I look when I’m thinking about tossing you onto the sofa, dragging those criminally

short shorts down to your ankles, and giving you the tongue lashing of your life.”

Her throat contracted as she swallowed. “Oh.”

He crossed the room, feeling like a panther closing in on prey. “Would you like a drink first?”

“N-no.” She swallowed again. “The dirty talk works for me. I’m good to go.”

“Awesome.” He took the vacuum from her, lifted it, and twisted to stow it out of the way, but ended

up dropping the thing when a current of white-hot pain blazed down his back and into his leg.

“God-damn-it!”

“Don’t move!” Her hands were on him in a second—all over him—fluttering from his neck, to his

shoulders, to his waist. “Let the pain ease off. You taxed your back lugging me around last night, and

now when you twisted, you drove your swollen disc into your nerve. It hurts like crazy, I know, but I

promise it’s not new damage. Just stand straight, and the sensation will subside in a few minutes.”

He stood there, sweaty, shaking, and pissed as hell at the time bomb in his back that could turn his

own body against him at the most inopportune times. “This fucking sucks.”

“I know,” she said in a low, soothing voice. A gentle hand patted his chest, and then slid up and

around to the back of his neck. She kneaded the tendons there until he closed his eyes and let his head

fall forward. “You’re used to being able to rely on your body. You’ll be able to again, but, for now,

you have to take things easy and give yourself time to heal. Come on.” She tugged his hand and pulled

him toward his bedroom. “Let me help.”

From pretty much the moment he’d walked in the door and seen her in dancing around in those high

heels and shorts, he’d planned on getting her into his bedroom, but a therapeutic massage had been the

last thing on his agenda. Now, here she was, leading him into his room like a nursemaid. The whole

sad scene made his earlier aspirations seem like a sick joke. “I don’t need any help,” he ground out,

well aware he sounded like a cranky five-year-old. He caught a glimpse inside the guest room as they

passed, and nearly stumbled at the sight of two, oversize, hot-pink duffle bags parked on the floor,

overflowing with clothes and shoes. “You know, for a free bird, you don’t travel all that light.”

She gave him the owl eyes. “Too much stuff everywhere?”

Okay, maybe the pain made him more blunt than normal, but he was starting to feel claustrophobic

in his own home. “More than I expected. Ten years rotating between stateside posts and overseas

deployments got me used to keeping things pared down to the essentials. All this”—he gestured to the

apartment in general—“is a little overwhelming.”

“No problem.” She preceded him into his bedroom. “I’ll edit the decor down a bit after I get your

back squared away.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Take off your shirt, remove your belt, and lie facedown on the floor, right here.”

She pointed to the empty area right beside his bed.

Her words taunted him with their completely unintended erotic undertones, and the frustration of the

situation got the better of him. “I’d rather have you face down on the floor, naked, telling me exactly

how hard and fast you’d like me to fuck you. Barring that, I’d just as soon be alone with my messed-

up back and two fingers of Johnny Walker.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, which pushed her breasts up to tantalizing new heights above

the neckline of her tank top. “If you follow instructions like a good boy and let me get you to the point

you could actually follow through on the offer, I’m more than happy to discuss how hard and fast I

like to be fucked.”

Okay, huge incentive to stop acting like a complete asshole. He walked over to her and carefully

unfolded her arms. Then he took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers, and squeezed gently. She

squeezed back. “I’m sorry. I can be a good boy.”

“I’ll bet you can.”

She obviously intended to rub her very talented hands all over him. No reason to fight that. But he

could fight for maximum comfort. “Sure you wouldn’t rather do this on my bed?”

“Not this. I need you on a solid surface if I’m going to try to work some magic between your L5 and

S1. Afterward,” she raised a shoulder and let it drop, “who knows where we’ll end up?” She took a

step back and wiggled her fingers. He released her hand. “Go ahead and get into position. I’m going

to grab some massage oil from my room. Be right back.”

She swept by him and he moved aside to let her go. He expelled a slow breath and then stared at

the spot where she’d told him to lie down. Getting down there was going to be a challenge. He

unbuttoned his shirt with less-than-steady hands, shrugged it off, and tossed it on the bed. The white

undershirt quickly followed. Then he sat on the bed, lifted each foot, unlaced and removed his boots

without moving his lower back. The belt came off next. And then—thank Christ he was still alone—

he lowered himself to his knees like an out-of-practice Catholic. From there he went onto all fours

and slowly slid his legs backward into a push-up position. He released his elbows and lowered his

chest until it rested on the rough-weave carpet. The pressure on the nerve abated a little and the pain

lancing down his leg subsided from heinous to merely unbearable.

“Do you prefer sandalwood or eucalyptus?” Chloe’s voice invaded his thoughts at the same time

two powerful scents invaded his nostrils.

“Your choice,” he managed, turning his face to the side to watch as she stepped out of her heels and

knelt down beside him.

“I choose eucalyptus, in that case.” She recapped one bottle and put it down on the nightstand, then

shook the other bottle. “The essential oil acts as an anti-inflammatory, plus it’s recognized as a

treatment for muscle aches and pains. Relax,” she said softly and positioned his neck the way she

wanted it. He heard a click when she flicked the bottle open and dribbled oil into her palm.

His nerve endings tingled. And then her hands were on him. The warmth of her touch flowed from

the base of his neck, along either side of his spine, and stopped just below the waistband of his pants.

He held his breath.

Gentle thumbs found tense muscles in the center of his back, dug in, and meticulously worked their

way out, toward his hips, keeping the pressure steady as she went. By the third pass, the pain was

down to a low ache and he was starting to imagine her rubbing other areas besides his back.

He released a breath. “That feels good.”

“I know.”

“You can’t possibly know,” he mumbled, enjoying her hands, the scent of the massage oil, even the

texture of the carpet against his cheek.

“Sure I can. Licensed massage therapists undergo hundreds of hours of training, and I’ve been a

guinea pig more times than I can count. I know what it’s like to be the one trusting my vulnerable,

half-naked body to the skill of the therapist.”

Her soft, husky voice wove yet another fiber into the cocoon wrapped around him. He drifted a

little deeper into the state of grace she seemed to be able to put him in at will.

Warm, lubricated hands swept over his shoulder blades, down his back, and pushed his pants a

little farther down his hips. “No tattoos for you, Major?”

“Uh-uh. I’m not a big fan of needles.”

She chuckled. “Beauty knows no pain.”

“My ass knows no pain, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

This time, when her fingers wandered to the base of his spine and gently probed the gap between

his vertebrae, he didn’t tense up. She offset the downward push at his lower back with opposite

motion at the base of his skull. The entire length of his spine underwent a slow, subtle stretch, and,

just like last time, the ache dissolved. He couldn’t hold back a groan of relief.

“Better?” She shifted around until she faced his feet.

“God, yes,” he confirmed, in barely more than a two-syllable grunt.

“Any residual pain darting along here?” Her hands smoothed over the small of his back and then

down into his pants, moving lower as she massaging his hip.

The new direction of the massage managed to relax and energize him at the same time. Within

seconds, those nimble fingers of hers had his dick drilling a hole in the floorboards. “Chloe?”

“Yes?” Her hands stopped their slow, circular sweeps along his hip.

“I’m going to turn over now.”

“I’m still feeling some impaction here at the abductor—

“I’m going to turn over,” he repeated and made good on the announcement. “You,” he hooked his

hand into the gap between her back and the waistband of her shorts, “are going to shimmy out of

these.” He gave the shorts a tug. “Understand?” Maybe they didn’t have any condoms, but he was

ready to get creative.

She sat stock-still for a moment, not facing him, and he wondered if he’d offended her by issuing

the lewd instruction while she was working on him. Then she stood, and, God help him, unbuttoned

the little shorts. She let them fall to her ankles, treating him to the sight of the hummingbird framed by

the frilly elastic of a lemon-yellow thong.

“What next?” she asked, as she stepped out of the shorts.

“The shirt.”

He watched, dry-mouthed, as she lifted the tank top over her head and tossed it aside. Only the

yellow thong and matching bra interrupted the smooth, lightly tanned expanses of skin before him.

“Anything else you’d like me to take off?”

The word “everything” sprang to mind, but what actually came out of his mouth was, “Put the shoes

back on.”

She turned her head and offered him a perfect profile, and he saw her lips curve slightly. “Yes,

sir.” Then she bent down and slipped the shiny, leather heels on. He couldn’t have spoken a word if

his life depended on it.

“And now?”

He took a ridiculous amount of pleasure in the fact that her voice wasn’t quite steady.

“Turn around, get on your knees, and straddle my face.”

She turned, and trailed her fingers over the lacy edge of her bra cup. A pretty pink flush colored her

cheeks. “Mind if I take this off first? It feels a little…tight…all of the sudden.”

“Not at all. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.” A second later the bra landed on the carpet beside him.

“Now,” she shook out her hair and leveled her gaze on him, “what was it you had in mind again?”

He patted his chest. “You, on your knees, straddling my face.”

One light brow arched. “Well, that gives you something to do, but what about me? How do I occupy

myself?”

He wrapped his fingers around her ankle. “I don’t think you’ll be bored. In about a minute you’re

going to be fully occupied coming on my tongue.”

The corner of her mouth rose in a challenging smile. “One minute? You’re awfully cocky for a guy

who’s flat on his back.”

“Go ahead, put me to the test.”

She moved to stand just beyond the top of his head. He felt the toe of her shoe brush his hair. “Why

don’t we see who’s coming against who’s tongue in one minute.” With that suggestion hanging in the

air, she knelt and planted a knee on either side of his head. The pose left her thighs open and the damp

silk of her panties scant inches from his lips.

“Game on,” he managed as she walked her hands down alongside his body until her face hovered

over his lap. Her hands bracketed his hips. He raised his knees and planted the soles of his feet flat on

the floor.

She pressed her face against the front of his pants and nuzzled a groan out of him. Then she looked

down at him through the space between their bodies and smiled. “Still think you’re going to win this

battle, Major?”

“Chloe, do you remember everything I did to you yesterday with my mouth? How I licked and

sucked and nibbled your lips. How I teased the rest of you until you wanted to scream?”

Her eyes went glassy. “Y-yes,” she murmured. She also lowered her hips a fraction of an inch, but

he wasn’t sure she did it consciously.

“Me, too.” He ran his hands up her thighs, traced his finger under the little V at the back of her

thong, and fiddled there, plucking at the line of fabric…moving it back and forth, alternatingly pulling

it tight and letting it slide back into place. She shivered and squirmed over him.

He turned his head and kissed the soft flesh of her inner thigh, loving the feel of her satiny skin

against his lips. She jumped and cried out, and he loved that, too. “Easy,” he said, and tightened his

hold on her thighs. Then, because her scent made his mouth water, he took a nip from her other thigh.

The muscles under his hands clenched and fluttered. “Michael! Oh, God—”

“Don’t you dare come,” he warned, and deliberately let his breath fan over her damp panties,

smiling when she moaned. “I haven’t even gotten started yet. I’m still reminiscing about yesterday,

when I ran my tongue all over those sweet nipples of yours, and then took them in my mouth.

Remember?”

An indecipherable sound served as her reply.

“I do. I seem to recall I kept right on sucking and biting and devouring you until you—Sweet

Jesus…”

Slim fingers fastened around him through his pants, effectively cutting off his power of speech. He

let go of her long enough to make a grab for his zipper. Their hands tangled as they fought his fly

down and she freed him from his shorts.

“I can play the memory game, too, Michael. For example, do you remember yesterday afternoon at

the clinic, when I pulled the sheet off your lap and gave you a very intimate…massage?” Her warm

breath teased his head and every last bit of blood in his body drained directly into his dick.

“It’s coming back to me,” he choked out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he clenched his jaw

when she closed her fingers around his cock and milked him slowly from base to tip. Before he could

recover from the maneuver, she pressed her lips to the tip, parted them, and took him in. All the way

in.

He reached down and skimmed his index finger lightly along the seam where her lips locked snug

around his throbbing cock. “I hope you’re prepared to take whatever you dish out.”

Apparently she wasn’t worried. With a noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan, she braced

herself on one forearm, burrowed her hand between his legs, and cupped his balls. He didn’t know if

she thought she’d found an exemption to his you-take-what-you-dish-out promise, but, if so, he figured

it was time to prove her wrong.

“Buckle up, Chloe.” He dragged her panties aside and kissed her long and hard, splaying his hands

over the small of her back and holding her in place when she stiffened and tried to buck away. She

moaned again—no hint of a laugh this time—and then, as if realizing her best defense was a swift,

take-no-prisoners offense, mirrored the move on his cock, sucking him into a deep kiss, and giving his

balls a squeeze for good measure.

“What?” The word came out as a gasp. “You think I’ve got no answer to that?” He parted her with

his tongue. She wrapped her other hand around his thigh, arched her back, and cried out. The cry

turned ragged when he laved her exposed, swollen center, and circled a finger around her opening.

“I’ve got a winning answer,” he promised and eased his finger into her. Her greedy interior

muscles clenched and released around him in absolutely perfect timing with the contraction and slide

of her mouth up and down his shaft. And, just like that, he lost the advantage—and he knew it.

A tightening started in the arches of his feet. “Oh shit. Chloe…” He meant it as a warning, but she

clung to him like a limpet and increased the pace of…everything. Her head bobbed between his legs.

Her hips jerked back and forth as she rode his tongue like a rodeo star.

His calves tightened. His thighs burned. The breath backed up in his lungs and gray spots formed at

the edges of his vision. She squeezed his balls again and rubbed her finger along a spot just behind

them. His entire body shuddered in a response so instinctive and involuntary he couldn’t have

suppressed himself if his life depended on it.

Words swirled in his brain…curses and pleas… Holy, shit, you’re killing me. Please. Don’t stop.

Thankfully, he was too busy sucking and rolling and tonguing her clit like a Tic Tac to even think

about talking.

Her mouth kept right on working him. That finger of hers kept rubbing. Primitive impulses took

over, and, before he could stop himself, he broke his longstanding rule and thrust into the soft, giving

haven at the back of her throat. An apology sprung to his lips, but never passed, because she made a

low, hungry sound, and then ground herself against his mouth in a flat-out frenzy.

He tried to hold himself back and let her have her moment, but something about those sexy noises

she made and the way she rocked against him in an urgent, helpless dance, snapped what little bit of

control he had left. His balls drew up. His lungs exploded. The back of his head slammed into the

carpet as an orgasm tore through him with all the ferocity of a bunker buster. Her scream of release

ricocheted through his oxygen-starved mind seconds before the flames consumed him.

Nothing even remotely like Chloe Kincaid had ever happened to him before. He wasn’t sure he’d

live through it.

Chapter Nine

Chloe crawled off Michael, turned around, and collapsed beside him. He slipped an arm around her

waist and snuggled her against him. “You win,” he grunted. She opened her mouth to mention the stash

of condoms now handily tucked away in his guest room, but the simple, affectionate cuddle made her

foolish heart roll over in her chest and beg like a neglected puppy.

Uh-uh. Sit. Stay. Now was not the right time, and Michael was not the right man. “I think, in all

fairness, we have to call it a draw.”

His low laugh melted whatever bones were left in her body. He nudged her chin up and pressed a

kiss to her lips. “You started with a major advantage. Tell me, Chloe, do you always vacuum in

stilettos?”

Mention of the shoes reminded her of her conversation with Lynne. The real world stepped in and

bitch-slapped her out of her boneless stupor. “They’re my lucky shoes.”

Another laugh rumbled from his chest. His fingers threaded through her hair. “No kidding. I felt

luckier the second I saw you in them. What had you feeling lucky?”

A big, stupid part of her wanted to stay wrapped in his strong arms, protected from her problems

for a while. Instead she propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him. “I had the shoes

on because I need to attract some luck.”

He toyed with the ends of her hair, but his contented smile faded a fraction. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, there’s good news and bad news. My recruiter found me a new job at a fancy resort in New

Mexico filling in for a therapist who’s going on maternity leave.”

Inexplicably, his smile slipped another notch. Her heart sank…that had been her good news.

“Congratulations. Sounds like a nice assignment.” He reinforced his smile, but it didn’t reach his

eyes.

“Thanks, but here’s the thing…the job starts in”—she closed her eyes and winced—“four weeks.”

Silence met her announcement. She peeked at him.

To his credit, his expression never faltered. He reached up and wound a tendril of her hair around

his finger. “So the shoes work.”

“Michael,” she shook her head, “it’s a disaster. When you offered me a place to stay, I’m sure you

never imagined having me underfoot for the better part of a month.”

“I’m good with whatever time line you need. I want to help.”

“And I appreciate your hospitality, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to do whatever I can to get

out of your hair sooner. Lynne, my recruiter, knows I’m available for any assignments between now

and then. I plan to pester her daily until she finds me something.”

His wide hand glided down her back, as if smoothing feathers. “Don’t. Just relax and enjoy the

break. Four weeks is no problem, except—” He gave her a strange look she could only classify as

guilty. Uh-oh.

“Except?”

“I guess you, ah, spoke to Mrs. Waverly today?”

Okay, she knew where this was going. “Yes, we chatted when I turned in my key. She asked for my

forwarding address, so I told her I was moving in with you, and kind of…you know”—she moved her

hand through the air—“flashed her the ring. She loves to gossip, and I figured you wouldn’t want her

spreading the word we’d shacked up without also including the little detail of our ‘engagement.’ But

don’t worry.” She used her thumb to center the diamond ring on her finger. “I’m pretty sure she bought

the story. She ooh’d and ahh’d and asked for details. Even though I kept things vague, I know she

imagines lightning struck the minute our eyes met. She kept sighing and saying, things like, ‘Time

means nothing,’ and, ‘When you find the right person, you just know.’” She laughed, because she’d

learned the hard way just how wrong those sentiments were.

Realizing her laughter sounded slightly bitter, she shook her head and forced her attention back to

the matter at hand. “Why? Did I play it wrong?”

“No.” He stroked his hand down her back again and circled her tattoo, absently, as if touching her

was a habit. “You played it perfectly…and I’m sorry I had to ask you to ‘play it’ at all, but this leads

us into the one little problem.”

Her stomach tightened at the mention of a problem. She propped her chin on her linked fingers and

tried for a carefree grin. “So much for my lucky shoes. What’s the issue?”

“Mrs. Waverly wasted no time calling my CO’s wife to spread the happy news. She, in turn,

instructed my CO to invite us to their house tomorrow evening to celebrate our engagement…which is

code for get a look at us and try to figure out if we know what the hell we’re doing.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, the carefree grin required too much effort. This was his life. What if she didn’t

pass muster? It had happened before. She sat up and started pulling on clothes.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly and sat up as well. She watched with no small amount of regret as he

yanked his shorts up. Her mouth went a little dry and she lost track of his words when he zipped his

pants. She licked her parched lips and tried to refocus on what he was saying. “…so I know this puts

you in an awkward position, and I hate to ask it of you.” He pulled his undershirt on and left it

untucked. “I can try to push them back, but I doubt I can dodge the invite for four weeks without

offending the colonel and Mrs. Harding. Especially not with Mrs. Waverly here, on the inside,

reporting all our comings and goings.”

“I don’t have a problem posing as your fiancée. I said I would, and I try real hard to keep my

promises. I just”—she turned her back to him and reached for her shorts—“I doubt giving your CO

and his wife an up-close, personal look at me is going to do anything positive for you, professionally.

I’m not exactly ‘perfect wife’ material.”

He laughed, which worried and annoyed her. “Glad you think it’s so funny.” She stood and kicked

off her shoes, then shoved her legs into the shorts, and tugged them up.

His hands shot out, quick as missiles, and intercepted her, preventing her from finishing the job. He

drew her shorts down a few inches and brushed his lips over her hummingbird.

“I know pretending to be engaged and ready to settle down makes you uncomfortable. It’s not who

you are or what you’re looking for.” He traced the tattoo with the tip of his tongue, while she bit her

lip to keep from sighing. “But I don’t think the Hardings are going to get quite this up-close and

personal over one dinner. To them, you look exactly like ‘perfect wife material.’” He kissed her one

last time, and then stood, pulled her shorts up, reached around front and buttoned them for her.

Good Lord, not five minutes ago the man had used his mouth to suck a crippling orgasm out of her,

so why did the small, comparatively chaste gesture of dressing her make her knees weak? She turned,

expecting him to back off, but instead she collided with him.

Her heart hammered in her too-tight chest. She opened her mouth to ask him for some space, but

instead blurted, “I failed the perfect-wife test before, back when I was married.”

…

Married? That certainly put her tattoo in an interesting new context. Michael opened his mouth to say

something flip and lighten the mood, but her pale face told him whatever scars he’d accidentally

uncovered ran deep. A lame joke about finding the bright side of a failed relationship and tattooing it

on her ass wasn’t going to help. Instead he took her hand, led her to the living room sofa, and sat her

down. “How about I pour you a drink and you tell me about it?”

She looked up at him with big, anxious eyes and nodded.

“Beer, or…?” He walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and paused for a moment as a whole bunch

of girl food stared back at him. Vanilla soy milk, some kind of probiotic yogurt he wouldn’t eat if he

was starving, more fresh fruits and veggies than he’d ever seen outside of the produce section of the

commissary. A casserole dish covered in tin foil took up almost an entire shelf. Nestled next to the

familiar dark green bottles of his favorite beer was a light yellow bottle of Chardonnay. He took the

chilled bottle and held it up. “Wine?”

“Wine, please. I didn’t want to toss perfectly good groceries, and you had a ton of room in your

fridge, so I brought a few things with me, and I made Mexican lasagna for dinner. I hope you don’t

mind.”

Mexican lasagna? Sounded like the kind of kitchen-sink recipe his mother would make up to

combine random leftovers into a meal. “Of course not. I love Mexican lasagna.” He’d have a bite to

be polite and make himself a sandwich later. No need to hurt her feelings. “I don’t have what you’d

call a stocked kitchen, but help yourself to anything.” He dug a wineglass from the cupboard and

poured her Chardonnay. For himself, he popped open a beer, and carried the drinks back to the sofa.

He handed her the wine and sat beside her.

She put her glass on the coffee table and twirled the stem a few times. He got the sense she didn’t

know where to start and he understood perfectly. They really didn’t know much about each other. A

lot of questions circled his mind, so he latched onto a reasonably easy one and tossed it out.

“Mind if I ask how old you are?”

“I’m twenty-four. And no,” she lifted her glass and gave him a weak smile over the rim, “I wasn’t

some starry-eyed teenager when I tied the knot.” She drank deeply and swallowed. “I was twenty-

one. Old enough to know what I was doing.”

“And what were you doing?”

“Trying to replace my parents’ miserable marriage with an even more miserable one of my very

own, though, obviously, at the time, I believed with all my heart I was doing everything right.

Marrying the man of my dreams—someone who drowned me in attention and needed me like nobody

else ever had.”

“You loved him.”

“Oh, yeah.” She sipped her wine and twisted her pretty lips into a grimace. “In the blind, idiotic

way most people get out of their systems at sixteen or seventeen.” She raised her glass and saluted

him. “Here’s to the late bloomer.”

The thought of her head over heels in love with some guy, and hurtling toward disappointment,

brought up a whole tangle of emotions he didn’t want to examine too closely. “Late or not, you

bloomed spectacularly. What happened?”

“Drew swooped into my world high on prospects and newly signed to an Atlanta Braves farm team.

We fell for each other immediately and got married much too quickly.” She shook her head at the

memory. “I ignored the whisper in my head saying stuff like, ‘You don’t really know him. This is a

whirlwind and you’re letting yourself get swept away,’ because I was so desperate to belong

somewhere, to call someone my own and believe he felt the same way about me. Maybe I can blame

the desperation on my parents, for dismantling our family while I still needed one, but whatever the

cause, I bought in to Drew’s lines completely. My heart drew a picture of us in a cute house with a

white-picket fence, two-point-three kids, and a dog. Sadly, I should have listened to my head.”

So Chloe hadn’t always been a free bird. Her ex-husband had turned her into one. “Last time I

counted, there were two people in a marriage, so don’t take on all the blame for yours not working

and assume you failed the perfect-wife test.”

“Oh, I don’t take all the blame. Drew gets his fair share, but I know I don’t come across as June

Cleaver. I overheard a couple of his coaches talking shortly after the marriage. One said something

like maybe having a wife and a stable home life would help Drew settle down and focus on his game.

The other one—an older guy—said, ‘Nah,’” she dropped her voice to a gruff growl. “‘Girl like her

wouldn’t know a stable home life if it bit her in the ass. She’s not going to be able to keep him on his

leash, much less keep his head on his game.’”

He took a pull from his beer to buy himself a second to get his temper in check. “Shitty thing to say,

especially considering it wasn’t your job to keep their player’s head on the game.”

She tipped her head to one side and lifted her hair off her neck. “My job or not, turns out the old guy

was right. Had I taken things a little slower, I would have realized Drew loves shiny, new things, and

that’s what I was to him. Unfortunately, after about six months I no longer qualified as shiny or new.

The convenient thing about playing ball, for Drew, was that every away game brought out a selection

of shiny, new things for him to sample.”

“He sampled?” Correction, not her ex-husband, her asshole ex-husband.

“Like a kid in an ice-cream parlor, and being the dumbass I am, I overlooked the clues for a long

time, because I couldn’t bear to let go of my happy-ever-after fantasy. Heck, I might still be sitting in

Memphis overlooking the obvious if one of his shiny new things hadn’t called and informed me she

was pregnant with Drew’s shiny, new baby.” She took a large sip of wine and swallowed before

continuing. “I confronted him. He confirmed the information. I filed for divorce, registered with

Helping Hands, and got on with my life.”

Her flippant tone didn’t completely conceal the depth of the wound. She’d trusted and been paid

back with betrayal. Of course that hurt. He resisted the urge to gather her up in his arms and promise

he’d never let anyone hurt her again. First, because she wasn’t his to protect, and next, because he had

the funny feeling any protective instincts he displayed would be met with a complete and total freak-

out on her end. Hell, it freaked him out too. She was a temporary decoration in his life, not a

permanent fixture, and he wasn’t looking for more complications. Their situation was already

complicated enough. Getting back into the cockpit required all his focus. He needed to remember that.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too, but my point in bringing this up is, his coaches knew from the start I wasn’t perfect-

wife material.”

“He wasn’t perfect-husband material.”

“No, he wasn’t, but they weren’t talking about him. They sensed something about me. A lack of”—

she rubbed her thumb over her fingertips, searching for the word—“I don’t know what exactly, but

you sensed it, too, the night we met. Don’t deny it. When you looked at me, you didn’t think, ‘There’s

someone to take home to Mom.’”

“Chloe, that’s not fair. The night we met you were handcuffed to your bed, wearing two scraps of

black lace, yelling your head off for someone to rescue you. As memories go, meeting you ranks right

up there in my hall of fame, but no, I was not thinking, ‘Here’s a girl who walks the straight and

narrow—’”

He shouldn’t have admitted anything, because she didn’t let him finish. “Don’t you think your

commanding officer and his lovely wife are going to sense the same thing?”

“No.” He reached over and took her hand. Her free-spirited nature, her courage to embrace her

wild side, made her Chloe—unique, chaotic, spontaneous, constantly surprising Chloe. Yes, he

appreciated discipline, order and control, and maybe their diametrically opposite approaches to life

meant they mixed about as well as whiskey and a piña colada, but he couldn’t stand to let her

consider her personality a failing. “They’re going to wonder what a beautiful, vivacious woman like

you is doing with a big, cynical marine like me.”

Her fingers curled around his and hung on. “This is a bad risk, Michael. The colonel and his wife

will want to hear our Grandkid Story, and ours is hopelessly warped. There’s no making it sound

smooth and pretty.”

“Our Grandkid Story?”

“Yes, our Grandkid Story—what we tell our grandkids when they ask how grandma and grandpa

met. Here’s ours in a nutshell: Grandpa had to rescue grandma when she handcuffed herself to her

bed, then grandma got fired for trying to give grandpa a happy-ending massage, then grandpa and

grandma moved in together and pretended to be engaged so grandma wouldn’t be homeless and

grandpa wouldn’t get drummed out of the Corps.”

“Sounds a hell of a lot more interesting than, ‘Grandma and grandpa met on Match,’ don’t you

think?”

“What I’m trying to highlight here is that our real story has some…problems. I don’t want to

embarrass you or set you back. What if I slip up and say or do something to tip the Hardings off that

things aren’t what we’ve led them to believe?”

“You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because they’re not looking to trip us up. They’re curious, that’s all. They may ask a few

questions, but those are easy to anticipate and prepare for, right?”

“You think?” She eyed him warily.

“Yes. Trust me,” he got up, grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge, and refilled her glass,

“you’re stressing about this way too much. The questions are predictable. As for the answers, aim for

ninety-nine percent truth, one percent bullshit.”

“You make this sound like a game.”

“Think of it as a game.” He raised his beer bottle. “In fact, for tonight, let’s make it a game. For

every question one of us gets right, the other has to drink.” She’d be relaxed in no time. “Five right

answers in a row, and I text my CO and tell him we’ll be there.”

“Fine. How’d we meet?”

“Easy.” He shot her a grin. “Applying my truth-to-bullshit formula, I’d say we were neighbors, and

I got to know you when you needed help opening something. Drink.”

She narrowed her eyes but took a sip of her wine. “Okay, bull-shitter, what was our first date?”

“You invited me over for a beer, to say ‘Thanks.’ The rest is history. Drink again.”

She swallowed and then sent him a look full of challenge. “Where was I born?”

“Texas.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you psychic?”

“Drink.” While she obeyed, he explained, “You mentioned it last night at the Stars & Bars…right

before you fell off the porch and threw up.”

She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “Oh, Lord, I’d been trying to block that out. How

can you possibly want to been seen in public with me—the girl who threw up in front of the Stars &

Bars?”

“If I limited my associates to people who hadn’t thrown up at the Stars & Bars, I’d be a pretty

lonely guy.” He shrugged. “Around a military base, nights like last night kind of go with the territory.”

She peeked at him from over her hands. “Do I have to drink for that answer?”

He raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “No. But it counts as number five. Looks like we’ve got

plans for tomorrow night.”

She took a large gulp of wine. “You’re moving too fast. We’re not done with our game. What’s my

favorite color?”

“They’re not going to ask that.”

“Favorite color is something a fiancé would know.”

“Fine.” The yellow underwear popped into his mind. “I’ll go out on a limb and say yellow.”

“Drink.” She tapped her wineglass to his empty beer bottle. “It’s a trick question. I love so many

colors I couldn’t possibly choose a favorite.”

“All right, cheater.” He took her glass and drank deeply, not so much because he liked Chardonnay,

but because he didn’t want her waking up with a headache tomorrow. “What’s my favorite color?”

Her eyes raked him up and down, but, considering he wore camouflage pants and a plain white T-

shirt, he figured his outfit offered precious few clues. She scanned his apartment and took in a couple

of framed photographs one of his copilots took of the Hindu Kush Mountains at sunrise, bathed in

shades of blue and white. “Blue?”

“Just lately, I’ve found myself partial to gray.”

“Gray?” She frowned, obviously disappointed. “Dull, not-quite-black, not-quite-white gray?”

“Sure.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at her. “I never really

appreciated all the amazing nuances of gray until I saw your eyes. When you’re amused, they sparkle

like polished silver. When you’re upset, they go dark and opaque, like thunderheads stacked along the

horizon of a winter sky. And my personal favorite,” he lifted the wineglass from her fingers and took

a swallow, all the while watching her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, “when you’re turned on,

those eyes of yours go soft and smoky.”

The gray eyes in question stared at him. She blinked slowly. “Wow…that’s pretty good bullshit.”

The scary part was his response involved none whatsoever. He forced a smile. “You think?”

She nodded.

“Awesome.” He handed her back her empty wineglass and pulled out his phone. “You heat up the

lasagna. I’m going to text the colonel and tell him we’ll see them tomorrow night.”

“Oh, God. Okay.” She shot up and wiped her palms on her shorts. “Tell them we’re bringing a

homemade apple cobbler, and—”

“We are?”

“Yes, that’s my one dessert specialty. And ask if there’s anything else we can bring,” she said as

she retreated to the kitchen.

“They invited us, Chlo. I think they’ve got it covered. And you don’t have to put yourself out

cooking. I’m going to the gym tomorrow morning with my friend Dane. I’ll stop at the store on my way

home and pick up a nice bottle of wine as a hostess gift.”

“It’s polite to offer,” she said as she preheated the oven, “and a homemade dessert says your

fiancée is the type of woman who makes the extra effort.” She started looking through cabinets.

“Shoot. I have to put together a list of things I’ll need for the cobbler. If you’re stopping by the store

anyway, will you pick up some things for me?”

“Sure.” Shit. She was getting all wound up again. He could feel the nerves radiating off her all the

way from his safe zone in the living room. He hit send on the text and then pocketed his phone and

wandered into the kitchen. He found her bent over, sliding the casserole dish into the oven. Maybe he

startled her or maybe drinking games and hot ovens didn’t mix, but she suddenly hissed in a breath,

yanked her hand back, and brought her wrist to her mouth. The oven door snapped closed.

“Here.” He put an arm around her waist and pulled her to the sink, then turned on the cold water,

stepped behind her, and held her wrist under the spray. She flinched when the cold water hit the burn,

which caused her body to jerk against his, which, in turn, caused a predictable reaction from his dick.

Talk about making up for lost time. After weeks of dormancy, Chloe showed up, and he’d had a near

constant hard-on ever since.

He held her a little tighter. “Hold still. Let the water cool the burn for a few minutes.” With his

arms wrapped around her, they both stared down at the side of her wrist, where a red welt from the

hot oven rack rose on her skin.

“Stupid,” she said, shaking her head.

Her hair brushed his jaw and a few strands tangled in his five o’clock shadow. He fought a sudden

compulsion to bury his face against the back of her neck and just drink her in, scent and sensation.

Hey, Romeo, maybe you could do that when she’s not suffering from a second-degree burn?

“An accident,” he corrected, speaking softly while forcing himself to back off, “could happen to

anyone.” He tipped the hand holding hers and showed her a similar scar on his wrist. “Old college

injury—frozen pizza.”

She leaned back until her head rested against his chest. “I’d wondered about the scar. There’s one

more question I’ll be able to get right tomorrow night.”

“Hey, do me a favor and don’t worry about tomorrow. We’re going to game the shit out of this

thing.” He turned the water off, dug a clean dish towel out of a drawer, and gently dried her hand and

arm. Then he grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink and led her to the small dining area just off

the kitchen, opposite the living room. She took the seat he held out for her and looked up at him with a

you’re-stoned expression.

“C’mon, this is your chance to learn all my secrets. Ask me anything.”

Chapter Ten

Michael’s challenge hung in the air while he leaned over her wrist and wrapped a gauze bandage

loosely around her burn.

“Anything?” she repeated, a little disconcerted to find herself the object of healing hands. She took

care of people. As a rule, nobody took care of her.

Then again, her rules had gotten screwed up right from the get-go with Michael.

“Anything,” he confirmed, nodding absently as he secured the bandage.

She couldn’t help noticing the overhead lamp highlighted gold strands in his thick, brown hair. “I

can’t think of anything.” Totally true. Her mind was too occupied noticing how uncharacteristically

careful he was for such a big, tough man. No surprise really. She remembered how he’d rubbed her

wrist the night he’d rescued her from the handcuffs.

“How about, ‘When’s my birthday?’” he prompted.

“November twenty-ninth.”

Sharp brown eyes collided with hers. “That’s my birthday.”

“I know. I read it on your chart yesterday.”

He kissed her bandaged wrist so gently her heart threatened to melt, and then he looked up at her

and smiled. “With a memory like yours, we’re solid. I was trying to tell you to ask me when is your

birthday?”

“Oh. Sorry. When’s my birthday?”

“I have no idea actually. November twenty-ninth?”

“Nice try. Drink.”

He got up and refilled her wineglass, then took a gulp, and plunked the half-full glass down on the

small dining table. “When’s your birthday?”

“May thirty-first.”

“Not too far away.”

“Yeah, in a few short weeks, I’ll be well into my mid-twenties.” She sighed dramatically.

“Twenty-five, divorced, and jobless. Thank God I’m engaged, or I’d be so depressed.”

“If it helps, I can promise our relationship will never end in divorce.”

The statement rang with such intensity it took her a moment to get the joke, and then she burst out

laughing. “That’s the most romantic thing any man has ever said to me.”

He grinned and pulled her into a quick, one-armed hug. “I’m smooth like that. And I’ll make you

another promise.”

“I’m not sure my heart can handle another.” She crossed her hands over her chest.

“If that lasagna you’re cooking tastes as amazing as it smells, I’m your slave for life.”

“The lasagna never fails. What kind of slave?” Naughty, but she couldn’t resist.

He raised an eyebrow and gave her an equally naughty look. “Any kind you think you can handle.”

…

They continued the game during dinner—which Michael admitted was the world’s best lasagna,

Mexican or otherwise—and willingly assumed his role of slave. This necessitated opening another

bottle of Chardonnay. He also found himself playing self-appointed rescuer again, surreptitiously

drinking more than his fair share of the bottle in order to save her from a hangover. He managed to get

heroically tipsy in the process, which hadn’t happened in a long time, and made concentrating on the

game tough. When she spoke, his attention kept wandering to her hands or her mouth. Her actual

words tended to get lost in the buzz.

The task of cleaning up after dinner got his body moving again, but his brain still felt sluggish.

Chloe, on the other hand, was going a mile a minute.

“So your oldest brother, Trevor, is an LAPD homicide cop, married to Kylie, who owns a yoga

studio?” Chloe followed the question up by handing him their dirty plates and utensils.

“Right.” He nodded, rinsed the dishes, and loaded the dishwasher.

She folded a new sheet of aluminum foil over the half-empty casserole dish and placed it in the

fridge. “Logan is your younger brother, the rock climber. He lives in Colorado and founded a

climbing-gear company. And he’s married to…hmm…” She bit her lip.

Michael shut the fridge door so they stood face to face. “And he’s married to?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Um…oh… I know. He’s not married. I got that right didn’t I? You, sir”—

she poked his chest—“have to drink.”

“I’ve created a monster.” Still, he picked up his glass and drained it. “No more. Your slave

requests mercy.” He took her hand and dragged her to the couch, and then pulled her down beside

him.

“My slave… I do like the sound of that. I may have to change your nickname from Major Hottie to

slave.” Her wide smile and the extra bounce she took when she sat told him he hadn’t completely

cornered the market on tipsy.

“Since when is my nickname Major Hottie?”

“Lynne came up with it, I think.”

“Your recruiter?” The idea of his hotness being assessed by a complete stranger left him feeling a

little…fazed. Heat crawled up his neck.

“Why, Major, you’re blushing.”

“I am not. Marines don’t blush.”

She giggled and pressed her palms to his flushed cheeks. “Oh, sorry, my mistake, Major Hottie.”

“I think I prefer ‘slave.’”

“You don’t say?” She giggled again. “What are your slave duties?”

“Entirely your call, Mistress, but might I suggest you’re looking a little tense right here?” He rested

his hands on her shoulders and kneaded the muscles.

Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “You’re going to give me a massage?”

“Sure.” But he also really liked the idea of her body all pressed up against his, so he reclined and

pulled her down until she lay on top of him. “I learned my techniques from the best.”

She raised her head and eyed him suspiciously. “The position you’ve chosen is certainly

innovative.”

He ran his hand along the back of her neck and lowered her head so her cheek nestled against his

chest. The warm weight of her breasts rested against his diaphragm. He found himself taking deeper

breaths than necessary and smoothing his palms down her back in slow, even strokes.

She snuggled into him a little deeper. “Mmm. That’s nice.”

He could not agree more. Content to drift, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of her draped all

over him like an absurdly sexy blanket. Just for a minute…

A pounding noise jackhammered through his skull and rattled his brain.

“What the…?”

A soft, groggy groan sounded from somewhere close to his ear and warm breath tickled his temple.

Chloe.

He snapped his eyes open, winced at the daylight streaming through the living room window, and

took stock. They were still on the sofa with Chloe sprawled over him, limp and boneless. He had one

hand tangled in her hair and the other down the back of her shorts. Her tank top had worked its way up

her torso during the night, leaving a smooth expanse of bare skin, and, just above the low, wash-

whitened waistband of her shorts, the greenish-blue tip of a hummingbird wing.

The pounding started again, and a familiar voice yelled through the door, “Hey, man, it’s Dane. You

okay in there?”

“Fine,” he tried to reply, but the word left his dry, scratchy throat like a weak cough. Chloe groaned

again, an incoherent protest against all the noise, and snuggled her face against his neck.

The next thing he knew, his front door swung open and Dane walked in. “You know your door

is”—his friend’s voice trailed off as he got an eyeful of Chloe and Michael entwined on the couch,

and froze—“unlocked.”

Chloe popped up like a prairie dog and blinked. Her red-gold curls tumbled every which way. She

had a line across her cheek from the imprint of his T-shirt. She looked sweet, and rumpled, and so

unbelievably sexy, if Dane hadn’t been standing there, he would have hustled them into the bedroom,

tossed her down in the middle of his bed, and found out, at last, what it felt like to be inside her while

she arched and shivered and cried his name like some kind of prayer.

Instead, he sat up as well, sneaked a hand along her back and tugged her tank top down. Then with

no small amount of regret, he slid her off his lap. “Dane, meet Chloe. Chloe, Dane. He was just

leaving.”

“Um, right.” Dane ran a hand through his short, uncombed blond hair, and had the good grace to

flash an apologetic smile. “Hi, Chloe. Nice to meet you.”

She stood, stretched like a cat, and then held out her hand. “Nice to meet you too, Dane.”

He took her hand, and Michael didn’t miss the way his friend’s gaze traveled over her, taking in

long, bare legs in tiny shorts, the yellow bra peeking out from the neckline of her tight tank top, the

mass of curls spilling around her shoulders. “Sorry for barging in. I didn’t realize Grumpy here had a

guest. I agreed to drag his sorry ass down to the gym this morning, and I thought he was wussing.”

Michael scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not wussing on anything.” Was it really eight in the

morning? He squinted at the clock on the cable box.

“The gym?” Chloe sent him a sharp look and then turned her attention back to Dane. “That might not

be such a good idea. Michael has a back injury.”

“Don’t worry, I know all about it. I’m not just his taller, smarter, much hotter friend, I’m also his

doctor.” Dane gave her his best ain’t-I-the-shit grin and Michael wondered if kicking his doctor’s ass

would aggravate his back.

“Oh, Dr. Anderson. I read your report.” At Dane’s inquiring look, she went on, “I do—well, did—

massage therapy at the clinic just outside Camp Pendleton. I worked on Michael earlier this week.”

“Excellent. The massage therapy was another thing I was afraid he might wuss out on. Glad to know

he followed through.”

She slid a sly smile Michael’s way. “He grumbled a little at first, but now he’s a believer.”

“That’s good, because I plan to put him through a whole series of physical therapy this morning. He

may come crying to you when we’re done.”

Michael pushed off the couch. “Yeah, right, we’ll see whose crying. I’m going to go change. Be

useful and make Chloe some coffee.”

He turned, but stopped when she put a hand on his arm. “If I make you a list, can you stop at the

store on your way home from the gym and pick up the…uh”—she glanced toward the kitchen where

Dane was dumping scoops of coffee into a filter—“the cobbler stuff for the thing tonight?”

“Dane, you got time to hit the commissary after the gym?”

“No problem.” He poured a carafe of water into the reservoir. “I know you hate to run out of

Depends.”

Michael smirked and flipped him the bird and then looked at Chloe, who had her fingers knit

together so tightly her knuckles had turned white. He unlinked her fingers and gave her hand a

squeeze. “Don’t worry, Chlo. You’re going to have the Hardings eating out of your hands tonight.”

She stared back at him with huge, worried eyes. “I just hope the cobbler hides the smell of our

bullshit.”

Chapter Eleven

Three…two…one. Michael counted down the seconds as he walked to his car. Right on cue, his

friend started in. “Sorry for barging in. I didn’t realize you had company. I thought you’d thrown your

back out and couldn’t get to the door.”

“Nope, my back feels pretty good, actually.”

“No doubt, considering you scored a sleep over with your massage therapist.”

Michael turned and led the way to his Jeep. “At this point, Chloe’s more than a masseuse to me.

She’s more like a…roommate.”

Dane’s say-whaaaat? expression would have inspired a cartoonist. “You’re living together? Better

be careful, man. Harding’s not going to smile on one of his officers shacking up with the local talent.

And his opinion matters, because, rightly or wrongly, he’s got a hell of a lot of say over your career—

especially at the moment.”

“Well, technically,” he hit the unlock button on his key and waited for the double beep, “we’re not

shacked up, we’re engaged.”

“Wow. You work fast.”

Michael shrugged and got in the car. “She was in a little bit of a bind and needed a place to stay for

a few weeks. I wanted to help, but I also have my reputation to protect, so…”

“Ah,” Dane nodded from the passenger seat, “an engagement for show only. In that case, I have to

say the eyeful I got this morning of you two all cozy on the couch looked pretty convincing.”

Yeah. It had felt pretty convincing too. “That was perfectly innocent.” Mostly innocent. “We stayed

up late talking—preparing for dinner tonight with Harding and his wife to celebrate our engagement—

and fell asleep.” He put the car in gear and steered out of his parking space.

“And after the gym, you’re going to run to the store for her?”

“Yep. It’s the least I can do. She vacuumed yesterday.”

“And she’s going to bake something for tonight’s command performance at the Hardings’?”

“So?” The skepticism in Dane’s voice was starting to chafe. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, you two stay up half the night talking and fall asleep in each other’s arms, you do little

chores for each other, and you socialize as a couple. You’re more engaged than half the real couples I

know. Are you sure this thing is for show only?”

“Yes. She’s leaving in four weeks.”

“She doesn’t have to. There are jobs in San Clemente.”

“Staying in one place isn’t for her. She’s not looking to settle down, and I’m not looking for a

casual, catch-you-next-time-I’m-in-town kind of thing. I’ve ridden that merry-go-round for a long time

and I’m ready to get off.”

“So four weeks, and then have a nice life?”

“In a nutshell. My life will get back to normal.”

Dane shrugged and faced front. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Hell, yeah, it would. No more nerve-racking engagement charade. No more having his

apartment look like it had been invaded by a band of gypsies, no more chick food in his kitchen…no

more homemade dinners, no more sexy massages, no more waking up surrounded by the scents of

cinnamon and honey. No more Chloe.

…

Chloe knew she was making herself, and Michael, crazy, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She walked

from the bathroom to the living room, where he was trying to watch a ball game, and stood beside the

oversize flat screen…again. “Are you sure this looks okay?” She smoothed her hand over the billowy

skirt of her pink, strawberry-print sundress, sending a stack of slim, pink, enamel bracelets tinkling

down her arm to gather at her wrist. This was the closest thing she owned to a church outfit but the

halter top of the dress had her worried and her lucky shoes weren’t giving her much of an advantage.

“I want to be presentable.”

“Huh?” he said absently, his eyes never drifting from the screen.

She huffed out a breath. Men had it so easy. Had he agonized over his wardrobe? No. Had he spent

an hour in front of the mirror taming his hair into a smooth, subdued twist? Not even close. He’d come

home, showered, thrown on flat-front khakis and a white, linen shirt, and run a comb through his hair.

And he looked perfect.

Michael reached out, quick as a snake, and caught her around the waist. Despite her halfhearted

struggles, he tugged her down onto his lap. “You look fine.” He nuzzled her neck, but she had a funny

feeling he kept one eye on the game. He disabused her of the notion when he fingered her bracelets,

and then parted them and swept his thumb lightly over the flesh-colored Band-Aid she’d used to cover

the little burn from last night.

“Very presentable.” His nose brushed her throat. “And you smell almost as good as the cobbler.”

“Oh, shit, the cobbler!” She squirmed off him and hurried into the kitchen. A peek inside the oven

confirmed the dessert was done. “Thanks for reminding me.” She turned off the heat, grabbed a couple

pot holders and placed the square pan of bubbling apple-brown-sugar decadence on the stove to cool.

She fanned the cobbler with a pot holder. Sudden silence from the living room told her Michael had

turned off the television. Next thing she knew, he wandered up behind her and rested his hands on her

shoulders.

“Don’t worry about this evening, Chloe. Just relax and be yourself. We’ve rehearsed and we’re

ready. You look beautiful. This dessert looks amazing. The Hardings are going to love you.” He

reached around her and took a swipe at the cobbler.

She swatted his hand away but not before he stole a crumble of topping. “Hands off. That’s for

tonight.”

“I’m selflessly serving as the taste tester.” He dropped the crumbs in his mouth, swallowed, and

smiled. “Oh yeah, they’re going to be eating out of your hands. You ready?”

Oh, God. Her stomach bungee jumped to her knees and then sprang back with a sickening lurch.

Ready? Not so much. She shoved the cobbler pan at him. “Here, wrap some foil over this. I have to

check my hair real quick, and…” She hurried out of the kitchen… Put on more deodorant, meditate,

pray.

By the time she returned from the bathroom, Michael stood by the door. “All ready.”

She drew in a deep breath, ran her palms down her skirt, and nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He grinned and led her out the door.

On the drive to the base she silently reviewed everything she and Michael had discussed last night.

They’d only touched the tip of the iceberg. There was tons of stuff she still didn’t know.

“What’s your middle name?”

“James—there will be no quiz, Chlo.”

She ignored him. “Michael James McCade.” She repeated his full name several times in a low

whisper.

“Okay, not that I think it will come up, but just out of curiosity, what’s yours?”

“Um…Chloe is my middle name, actually.”

His eyes darted to her, and then back to the road. “Seriously? Wow. Now I’m glad I asked. What’s

your first name?”

“You can’t laugh.”

Michael pulled the car to a stop at the Camp Pendleton main gate and showed his military ID to the

marine on guard. He waved them through with a salute. “I would never laugh…Ethel…Myrna…

Harriett…whoever you are.”

“Scarlett.”

“As in, O’Hara?” His lips twitched once, before he tamed his feature into his stoic, I’m-a-badass-

marine expression.

“Yes. Gone with the Wind was one of my mom’s favorite books.”

“Scarlett’s a nice name. Distinctive. Why don’t you go by Scarlett?”

She shrugged. “It didn’t suit me. Everyone pretty much called me Chloe from the get-go. Then,

when I was twelve or thirteen, I read Gone with the Wind, and I was like, ‘Hey, Scarlett’s a complete

bitch.’” She laughed, despite her lingering tension. “I vowed never to be a Scarlett, literally or

figuratively. But now you know the awful truth. I hope you’re not ashamed to be engaged to a Scarlett

woman.”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

She giggled, but the humor subsided as Michael turned into the Del Mar Military Housing tract,

and, a few seconds later, pulled to the curb in front of a sprawling gray, single-story Cape-Cod at the

end of Dolphin Way, with a bluff’s top view of the Pacific. She inhaled an unsteady breath. So this

was officers’ housing. Nice.

He came around and opened the car door for her. She held out the cobbler, expecting him to take it

from her, but he leaned in and took her arm instead. The next thing she knew she was standing on the

sidewalk beside him, clutching the cobbler pan. She stared down the front walk and whispered,

“Michael James McCade” under her breath.

“C’mon, Scarlett,” he took the cobbler from her stiff fingers and then wrapped his hand around hers

and navigated them down the front walkway to the door. Chloe had time for one more deep,

stabilizing breath while he rang the bell, and then the door opened and a tall, slim, sixty-something

man with pewter-gray hair and ice-chip blue eyes stood in the entryway. He wore his pressed, dark

blue polo shirt and starched jeans with the bearing of a dress uniform.

His stern expression cracked into a smile, and he clapped Michael on the shoulder. “Right on time,

Major. And you must be Chloe.” He engulfed her hand in his and gave her a firm, precise shake.

“Pleased to meet you.” Although he spoke at a normal volume, his voice held a booming, authoritative

note. This man was accustomed to giving orders.

“Nice to meet you too, Colonel.”

“Come on in.” He stepped aside to give them room, and Michael’s hand at the small of her back

guided her over the threshold. “I’ve got the grill warming out back, but we’ll swing through the

kitchen so I can introduce Loretta and get you two set up with drinks.”

“You have a beautiful home,” she commented as they passed the open living room and dining area.

“Thank you. That’s Loretta’s doing. No matter where I’m stationed, no matter how rustic the

conditions—and, believe me, there have been some damn rustic ones—she always manages to make

us comfortable.”

The interior was as meticulously clean and stylish as the outside. Items from across the globe

brought an eclectic mix to the beachy furnishings, but the order and arrangement kept the place from

looking like a hodgepodge. Chloe immediately pictured the mess she’d left at Michael’s…rejected

outfits tossed on the bed, makeup littering the bathroom counter. She could never pull off a home like

this. A certain amount of clutter and disarray just seemed to spring up around her.

Still, under the House Beautiful surface, there was a depressing familiarity. She recognized the

telltale signs of a military household, even though the Hardings’ souvenirs from places like Japan,

Germany, and the Middle East were more upscale than the tourist-level knickknacks her father had

carted home from his various deployments. Growing up, it had seemed to her as if every memento

marked an argument between her mom and dad—about his career. His priorities. Did these walls

bear witness to the same painful memories?

The colonel led them down a hall decorated with family photographs, including a boys-to-men

progression of school portraits featuring what had to be the colonel’s sons. In the kitchen, a petite,

auburn-haired woman in a flattering, peach-colored shirtdress stood at a granite-topped island,

putting the finishing touches on a vegetable tray. Chloe fiddled with the neckline of her dress,

suddenly self-conscious of her bare shoulders.

The woman looked up as they came in. “Michael,” she said, smiling warmly. She dried her hands

on a towel and then came around the island and gave him a hug. “So nice to see you again.”

“You too, Loretta. Thanks for having us.”

“Thanks for getting engaged and giving us an excuse to celebrate.” She turned to Chloe, “Hi, Chloe,

I’m Loretta. I’m thrilled to meet you, and, can I just say, I love your dress?”

Chloe found the warm smile directed at her. She nodded and attempted her own breezy, “Thank

you,” despite her stiff cheeks. Maybe she didn’t quite pull it off, because Michael gave her an odd

look, and handed her the cobbler. She offered it to the older woman. “And thank you for hosting us

this evening, Mrs. Harding.”

“Loretta, please.” She peeled the foil back and inhaled appreciatively. “Mmm. I asked Stan to tell

you not to go to any trouble, but now I’m glad you did. Stan, will you get our guests something to drink

—I’ll take a glass of the Cabernet you decanted—while I see to a couple more things?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He strode to a bar area at the other end of the kitchen. “We’ve got wine, beer, soft

drinks. What can I get you, Michael? Chloe?”

Michael wandered over to handle their drinks, and Chloe jumped on the opportunity to be useful.

“Is there something I can help with?”

Loretta shook her head. “No, no. Get a drink and then go on out to the patio and relax.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” She grinned. “It’s all part of my strategy. I ply you with food and beverage and then I get the

scoop on this happy development.”

“Oh, well…there’s not much to tell, really.”

“Are you kidding? I pride myself on keeping my finger on the pulse of all the happenings around

here, but you and Michael flew completely below my radar. I have some catching up to do. I’m going

to pump you both for every single little detail.”

Chloe swallowed hard and sent Michael what she knew was an anemic smile when he handed her a

glass of wine. He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her out French doors to the patio.

“You’re doing fine,” he whispered in her ear.

“We’re screwed,” she whispered back.

An hour later, Chloe leaned back in her chair, exhaled a small sigh of contentment, and turned to soak

in the apricot-raspberry sunset. Michael had his arm draped along the back of her chair and traced

intricate, meandering designs along her shoulder with his fingertip.

As screwings went, this one had been fairly painless. Conversation had flowed during dinner but

nothing too pointed. Mostly questions Michael had predicted—how had they met? How had Michael

popped the question? There was no way to camouflage the short time line, but the Hardings merely

echoed Mrs. Waverly’s sometimes-you-just-know sentiments. Michael succeeded in turning the

conversation to other topics easily enough. The colonel knew his way around a grill and didn’t mind

talking technique. He’d earned the right, as far as Chloe was concerned, because he served up baby-

back ribs as good as anything she remembered from her Texas barbecue days. She felt herself starting

to relax.

The colonel’s voice broke into her musings. “So, when’s the big day?”

Michael’s hand froze on her back. She cast him a quick glance that probably looked guilty as sin.

Oops. They hadn’t thought to set a fictional date for their fictional wedding.

“We’re still in the planning phase, sir,” Michael replied, and casually ran his fingers along the back

of her neck, as if to silently say, No worries. I’ve got this.

“Hmm.” The colonel pressed his lips together as he contemplated the information. The gesture gave

him a mildly disapproving look and Chloe automatically tensed in her chair. She clasped her hands

together in her lap.

“I understand you two are living together?”

Uh-oh. Now they were getting down to it. “Um—”

“Yes.” Michael nodded and dropped his hand to her lap. He threaded his fingers through hers to

stop her from attacking the cuticle of her thumb. “Chloe had housing at Casa Clemente through her

work, but the assignment she was on recently ended and, consequently, she needed to vacate her unit.

Rather than go to the time, effort, and expense of finding a short-term rental, I asked her to move in.

We can put the time and money we saved into the wedding.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Loretta offered an encouraging smile as she posed the question,

and Chloe recognized a softball when someone was kind enough to lob one her way.

“I’m a massage therapist. I work through an agency called Helping Hands that places me in contract

assignments all over the country.”

“Sounds exciting! How long are the assignments?”

“They vary. I’ve worked assignments anywhere from three weeks to three months. That’s pretty

much my outside limit. Anything longer and I get a little restless,” she admitted. “I like to travel.”

“Oh, but, now”—Loretta’s eyes shifted to Michael—“now that you’re getting married, you’ll want

to look for something local, right?”

“Right.” Michael lifted her hand and placed a soft kiss on her wrist, and her idiotic heart raced,

even though she knew the sweet gesture was all for show. Then he smiled at her and winked. “She’s

giving up her wanderlust ways for me.”

“Don’t give them up completely. As a marine wife of twenty-five years, I can verify you get plenty

of travel courtesy of the military.” Oddly, Loretta sounded content with that state of affairs. A similar

comment coming from Chloe’s mom would have been the beginning of a long lament about the

difficulties of life as a military wife.

“Another reason to set the date sooner rather than later,” the colonel added. “Now, I know the men

see me as a stick-in-the-mud about things like this, but I don’t endorse officers just…shacking up. It

sets a terrible example. You two are engaged,” he inserted, holding his hand up for silence when

Michael would have spoken, “and that’s different, but if you drag the engagement out too long, fate

has a way of complicating things. I disapprove of complications. A smart person avoids them.” He

punctuated the statement with a sharp look at Michael.

Loretta laughed and elbowed her husband. “I think you just called us not so smart, Stan.” She

leaned close to Chloe and stage whispered, “If you do the math on our oldest boy’s birthday, you

discover he came along exactly seven-and-a-half months after the wedding…and that kid was a week

late.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. Babies. They’re talking about babies.

“We’re not looking to have a…uh”—Michael cleared his throat and continued—“complication

anytime soon. Definitely not before the wedding.”

“Then take my advice and keep the engagement short, son,” the colonel insisted.

“I don’t think either of us is envisioning a long engagement,” Michael replied. He aimed a

questioning look her way and she had to give him credit for his acting ability. If she didn’t know

better, she’d think he was an attentive fiancé trying to feel out his bride-to-be on this important

question. “But we have my family to coordinate and—”

“They’re right here in California, aren’t they?” The colonel phrased it as a question though he

clearly already knew the answer.

“All except my little brother Logan, yes. He lives in Colorado.”

“Practically next door. Sounds like easy logistics on your end, Major.” The colonel turned to her.

“Where’s your family, Chloe?”

The conversation was taking a dangerous turn, but she had no idea how to get it onto a safer track.

“My dad lives in Texas.” She hesitated, unsure how much to reveal, and then decided to simply be

honest. “My mom lives in Pennsylvania with her new husband. My parents split up when I was a teen,

and I went to live with my grandmother in Mississippi.” A cough helped clear the lump from her

throat. “She had a stroke almost eighteen months ago and passed.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Loretta piped up.

“Me too, but Grandma lived a full, happy life. She counted her blessing and taught me to do the

same. The day my mom shipped me off to live with her was the best day of my life—though I didn’t

know it at the time. She gave me the kind of secure, loving home my parents never quite managed.”

Loretta reached over and touched Chloe’s arm. “It’s difficult to build a secure home on a rocky

marriage.”

Chloe nodded her agreement. “Yes. My parent’s divorce was long overdue. My dad is career Army

and my mom detested everything about military life. She sank into a depression every time my dad got

transferred to a new post. She hated packing up, leaving everyone and everything she knew behind,

and having to put down roots in a new place. The only thing she hated more than moving was being

left behind when he went on deployments.”

Michael settled his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, offering her comfort, without a hint of Stick

a cork in it, Chloe. Nevertheless, she wished he’d put paralyzing pressure on her occipital nerve

because she had to stop talking. Every word out of her mouth focused on the dark side of a military

marriage—all the reasons she’d vowed never to get involved with a member of the armed forces.

Why in God’s name couldn’t she muzzle herself?

“Deployments are hard,” Loretta sympathized.

Chloe nodded, vaguely aware she was twisting and untwisting her napkin in her lap. “We both

worried about him a lot. In addition to the worry, Mom felt abandoned, and she doesn’t do ‘alone’

very well. It made her especially susceptible to…ah…attention from other sources. Their marriage

spiraled to the point where my folks were both just”—shut up…shut up…for fuck’s sake, shut

up—“bitter and disillusioned with each other. I can’t tell you how many times I promised myself I’d

never be with a man in uniform.”

Silence rushed in. Her words seemed to hang in the air above the table. Michael continued to rub

her shoulder, but, otherwise, she sensed a distinct lack of movement around her. She glanced up and

found the Hardings staring at her. Nice work.

The colonel slowly nodded. “You understand,” he said quietly. “You know how challenging a

military marriage can be. That’s good. I see too many kids today—and no offense to either of you, but

when you’re on my side of forty, everyone on the other side of that birthday is a kid—who don’t have

the first clue what they’re getting into. I’m pleased to know you’re going into this with your eyes wide

open.”

Loretta nodded. “I agree. And I think the fact that you accepted Michael’s proposal, knowing

everything you know about the unique issues a military spouse deals with, means you love him very

much.”

The breath trapped in her lungs leaked out her nose. She looked at Michael helplessly, unsure what

to say.

“I think it’s time for a toast,” the colonel declared. “To the three most important things in life—

truth, love, and the U.S. Marine Corps.”

Chapter Twelve

Michael stepped onto the Hardings’ front walk and felt a strong urge to kiss the ground like an

astronaut returning to Earth after a long, hazard-fraught mission. Instead, he kept one arm around

Chloe and a smile plastered on his face. The Hardings stood together, framed by the doorway, waving

good night. Then Mrs. Harding called out, “Wait! Your cobbler pan… Stan, can you—”

“I’m on it,” the colonel assured her and disappeared into the house.

Loretta motioned them closer to the door. “I’m not sure he’ll find it. I may have put it in the

dishwasher. Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

That left Chloe, highlighted in the glow from the entryway, with a dark purple dusk as a backdrop,

looking up at him with smoky gray eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Why? You were”—he moved closer—“perfect.”

“You really think so?” With her chin angled up toward his face, her breath tickled his lips and he

imagined pressing them against hers. “There were a few spots where I thought I sort of screwed up.”

He brought his mouth another millimeter closer to hers. “Absolutely not. You nailed this evening.

They couldn’t get enough of you.”

She gave him a faint smile. “They’ll get over it. Everybody does.”

A part of him wondered if he would, before she moved on, but all he said was, “I’m going to be the

most pitied man on base when you dump my ass.”

Her smile widened. “That’s not how it’s going to go down.” She reached up and ran her fingers

through his hair; let her nails massage his scalp. “You’re going to get cold feet and call off the

engagement, and I’m going to fly off to parts unknown to try and put my shattered heart back together.”

He was ready to point out that nobody in their right mind would believe he’d called things off when

her eyes drifted to his mouth, her lips parted, and suddenly he couldn’t think of anything except

spending the rest of the night tasting the dips and curves of her lips. He slid his hand down to the

small of her back and pulled her against him. Her soft parts yielded to his hard ones.

She tipped her head and grinned up at him—an extremely sexy grin. “You remember when I

excused myself to use the restroom after Stan and Loretta toasted to our long, happy future?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t really have to use the restroom.”

“You didn’t?”

She shook her head slowly, still smiling like a schoolgirl with a secret. “Nope. I had a wardrobe

issue to attend to.”

“Uh-oh. Wardrobe issue?”

“My thong was bothering me, if you must know. It bothered me all evening. I think the darn thing

shrank when I washed it and, well, it was a little bit too tight.”

A mental picture of her standing in the Hardings’ powder room with her skirt hitched up, struggling

to get comfortable in a too-tight thong suddenly filled his mind. His body reacted instantly and

predictably. He moved his hand from the small of her back to the curve of her butt. “Anything I can do

to help?”

She raised her chin and brought her mouth a fraction of an inch closer to his. Her breath feathered

over his lips. “I solved the problem. I went ahead and took it off.”

He swallowed and ran his palm over her backside. He could feel a lot through the soft fabric of her

dress, but he couldn’t feel any panty lines.

“Am I a naughty girl?”

Holy shit, she was standing there on his commanding officer’s doorstep with no panties on. Parts of

him that had zero interest in toeing the line told him to reach up under her skirt, and…

“Here you go.” A square, Pyrex baking pan appeared in his peripheral vision. Loretta’s sudden

appearance startled Chloe, who jumped about a mile, effectively diverting his skirt dive.

“Whoops!” Loretta smiled at them and fanned her cheeks. “Mercy. I remember those days.”

“Sorry,” Michael said and took the pan.

“Oh, please. Relax. You’re off the hot seat.” She waved them off her doorstep. “Go! Have fun.”

No need to tell him twice. He nodded to their hostess, corralled Chloe from the other side of the

planet, and hustled her down the walkway and into the Cherokee. Somewhere in the back of his mind

he heard the Hardings’ front door close. He came around to the driver’s side, got in, pulled the door

shut, and stared at Chloe.

She stared back at him. The sound of her quick breaths filled the interior of the Jeep. Her tongue

darted out and licked her lips.

He moved first—or at least he thought he did—but the next instant they were tangled together. He

was drowning in the taste of her—champagne and apples and something sweet and addictive that was

just, plain Chloe—his arms were full of her warm, soft curves, and no matter how much of her he got

his hands on, or how intently she clung to him, they couldn’t seem to get close enough. In between

kisses Chloe giggled hysterically, which told him she was running on pure, unadulterated relief as

much as passion. Truth be told, he felt a little giddy himself.

“Come here,” he growled, and pulled her over the center console until she straddled him. Her lips

locked on his and she proceeded to take his tongue into her mouth and treat it like her favorite candy.

He dug through the folds of pretty, pink skirt spread over his lap, got a good grip on her pretty pink

ass, and shifted her into a position guaranteed to drive both of them out of their minds in about three

seconds.

Her giggles were officially gone. A moan slid straight from her mouth into his and flowed directly

to his cock.

His thoughts devolved to single words. More. Now. He tried to break the kiss, with the half-formed

intention of figuring out the best way to get her naked in such confined quarters, but she kept her mouth

fused to his and clamped a hand at the back of his head for good measure. He groaned and leaned into

her. She leaned back, which sent her hips sliding even more tightly against his. That felt so good he

leaned forward some more. She wrapped her other arm around his head and bowed back, more…

more… Her lower body rocked against his in a rhythm he was starting to recognize as her preferred

pace. He tightened his hold on her ass, bent her backward a little more and—

A horn blared. He jumped. Chloe jerked back, and the horn blared again, inconceivably loud.

Wide, dilated pupils sought him. “What the—”

“It’s us.” He shifted her into a more upright position. He’d had her bent back so far she’d braced

herself against the steering wheel and accidentally bumped the Jeep’s horn.

His explanation seemed to satisfy her. She lowered her eyelids, ran her hand along his jaw, and

brought those spectacular lips back to his. He could feel himself giving in to the reckless desire that

seemed to grip him whenever he got too close to her. Urges that made him forget about goals and

tugged him off the straight, narrow path he’d set for himself. It took a huge dose of self-discipline to

wrap his hands around her upper arms and hold her a hairbreadth away. “Not here.”

They were parked under a streetlight, directly in front of his CO’s house, for Christ’s sake. He

needed to get himself in check, and—she rocked against him as best she could given the tighter angle.

The move sent his good intentions into a tailspin. Then she groaned his name and the sharp-edged

frustration he heard in her voice perfectly echoed his own.

“Not here,” he repeated and ran his hand up and down her back. He nodded toward the house on the

opposite side of the street where a woman stood in the doorway, clipping a leash to a golden

retriever’s collar.

She glanced at the woman and then looked back at him and summed up the critical dilemma. “Home

is too far. Where can we go?”

“I have an idea.” He dropped her back into her seat and started the engine. The Hardings lived on

the last street in the planned community. The backyards of the houses along Dolphin Way faced the

bluff. Nothing stood between those backyards and the bluff except an unpaved fire access road. No

streetlights. No houses. No audience…unless some other desperate couple had already parked there.

“Hold on.”

Chloe gripped the dash as he peeled away from the curb, but as soon as the ride stabilized, she

leaned back in her seat and said, “Hurry.”

“I am hurrying. Lift up your skirt.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He glanced over at her. She raised her eyebrow but then slowly drew the skirt up, baring her legs,

her thighs. He looked back at the road.

“Touch yourself.”

“I’ve spent the last twelve months touching myself. I have a better idea.” She took his hand off the

wheel and guided it to her, and, Christ Almighty, she felt soft and warm and incredibly wet. His dick

immediately snapped to attention, and he had to swallow a curse. “This is a risky game, Chloe.”

The smile she leveled at him in return made him want to stop the car, pull her out and take her right

there on the hood of the Cherokee.

“In case you haven’t figured out by now, I like to take risks.” She moved his hand over her in a tight

circle, increasing the pressure and speed a little more with each pass. He listened to her breath

quicken and struggled to keep his eyes on the road.

Apparently his ability to multitask could use some improvement, because he misjudged the curb

when he made the turn onto the access road, bounced onto the dirt trail, and stomped on the brakes.

Directly in front of them was a bluff-top, one-hundred-and-eighty degree twilight view of the Pacific

that any photographer would have been happy to frame in his viewfinder, but it was wasted on Chloe

because her attention wasn’t on the scenery beyond the windshield. Her eyes were closed, her head

tipped back, and a dewy glow of sweat sheened her face. She was biting her lip as she worked

herself against his palm. He put the Jeep in park, and set the emergency brake, but left the battery on

so the air-conditioning kept pumping cool air into the interior.

She looked so beautiful, wrapped in the last fading shades of dusk and dappled in moonlight,

concentrating fiercely on the orgasm she was chasing, he almost hated to interrupt. He let her ride it

out a few more precious moments, to get a little closer, and then he extricated his hand from her grasp

and danced his fingers over her heated, swollen folds, experiencing a ridiculous surge of satisfaction

when she whimpered. She opened her eyes and looked around at the darkening scenery.

“Are we there yet?”

And now he wanted to laugh. All part of the Chloe magic—passion and humor. “Yes.”

“Good.” She unbuckled her seat belt, then his, and reached for the fly of his pants. “I can touch you

now.”

“Not so fast.” He cut her off, because he’d explode in two seconds if she got her hands on him.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, remember? You’ll have to earn your privileges.” He leaned over,

grabbed her hips, and helped her climb onto his lap.

“How?” she had time to utter before he kissed her again.

They were both breathing hard by the time they broke for air. Her eyes were slumberous and

incredibly sexy, her hands were anchored in his hair as if she worried he might try to get away. Or

maybe for balance, because his hands were under her skirt, palming her ass, moving her up and down

and enjoying the friction of their bodies brushing together through their clothes.

What felt this good through clothes would feel even better without them. “Off.” He tugged at her

dress. “This needs to go. Now.”

“Back zipper,” she panted, busy unbuttoning his shirt and kissing his chest.

His fingers scrambled along the back of the dress, found the zipper, and yanked it down. Then he

bunched the skirt in his fists and started drawing the dress up her body. She struggled to undo the last

few buttons of his shirt before he got to the point where she needed to let go to raise her arms over her

head. She didn’t make it and ended up pulling the shirt apart, sending buttons flying. “Oops.”

“Uh-oh. More naughty behavior. That’s a setback.” He forced her arms up and yanked the dress

over her head.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes and laughed. “Oh, I’m trembling.”

“You will be.” He tossed her dress into the back seat and snagged his fingers in the front of her bra.

A second later it joined her dress in the backseat.

The cool air from the vents kissed her breasts, contracting the nipples. She crossed her arms over

herself and craned her neck to look out the windshield. “Holy…crap. I-I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

He kissed the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered. “You like to take risks, remember?”

“I know, but I feel so…exposed.” Her voice quavered on the word, and he loved the small sign of

vulnerability.

“You are exposed.” He didn’t bother denying that part, since she was sitting on his lap, naked as the

day she was born. “But only to me. You’re completely safe. I promise.” He kissed his way along her

collarbone, and covered her breasts so he could feel her nipples against his palms. “Does this help?”

She arched toward him and her head fell back. “It helps…something.”

Full, warm breasts seemed to swell in his hands. He pinched the distended tips lightly, and just a

little harder when her breath hitched and she drove her hips into his. He was determined to get her

past the point where she had the capacity to focus on any external worries. The only thing he wanted

her worried about was what he would do to her next.

He palmed her ass and lifted her until he could suck one tight, pink peak in his mouth. She squirmed

and cried out and then clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Nervous eyes collided with

his.

“Nobody’s going to hear you. The windows are closed, the nearest homes are a hundred yards

uphill,” he assured her, drawing her hand away from her face. “Scream all you want.” He sucked the

other breast. She cried out again, but this time he heard less surprise and more unvarnished yearning

in the sound.

A sudden compulsion to taste those cries swamped him. He lowered her until their mouths were

level. She sank her fingers into his hair and kissed him like his tongue was her favorite treat. He went

back to squeezing her ass, lifting and lowering her hips, but this time the feel of skin against skin, hard

nipples scraping his chest, nearly undid him.

“Michael, I need you inside me.”

He eased a finger into her and closed his eyes as her body clenched around him.

“Oh God, oh God.” She shivered uncontrollably. “You know what I meant. Please.”

“I’m about to please you.” He glided his thumb along the point where he possessed her. Yes, he

was torturing them both, but he had promised some punishment.

“I want to come…with you.”

“You want my cock inside you?” He raised his hips and ground against her a little.

“Yes.”

Hearing her say so brought him close to the edge, but he buckled down on his lust. “You have to

earn it. Come for me first, like this.”

She twisted her fist into his shirt and made a tormented sound as he nudged his finger deeper. That

seemed to give her something to ground herself to—a focus—and she pumped her hips in a quick,

steady rhythm. He bent his thumb so she could use the knuckle as a backstop, but otherwise let her do

what she needed to do. Their mouths slid together and apart, together and apart, as she rode toward

glory. Her body shook. Her skin glistened in the moonlight. She bucked and strained and struggled for

release, but after several long moments, she lowered her head to his shoulder and rested against him,

breathing as if she’d just sprinted uphill. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I can’t—”

Oh, no, she definitely could. “Liar,” he teased, and slipped another finger inside her hot, tight

channel.

“Oh…oh sweet…”

He thumbed her clit.

“Heavvvvven!” She came—long and hard and with total, unrestrained, abandon. And he loved

every fucking second of it.

Before she finished shuddering, he scooted her back a few inches, managed to get his fly down

without injuring himself, and get the condom out of his pants pocket and onto his dick without mishap.

When everything was ready for her, he pulled her closer and looked into her stormy gray eyes. “Now

you’ve earned my cock.”

Her eyes widened. She dug her knees into the seat on either side of his hips and positioned herself

over him.

“Are you ready?” He hoped to God she said yes, because he was light-headed at the thought of

finally being inside her.

She rested her damp forehead against his and stared back at him with such a naked expression his

heart melted. “I’ve been ready for days.”

He covered her lips with his and absorbed her cry when he plunged into her.

Things got kind of frenzied after that. Her first orgasm had left her soft and giving, but still so

incredibly tight. They fit together perfectly, as if she’d been made for him. He wanted to go slow, to

make sure he brought her back to the brink before he unleashed himself completely, but the sight of her

bathed in moonlight, and the intensity of her body clutching him, overrode his good intentions. He dug

his fingers into her hips, lifting her, rocking her, stirring her for all he was worth, grunting when she

arched her neck, curled her fingernails into his shoulders, and matched him thrust for thrust. And still,

it wasn’t enough.

The next thing he knew, she reached down between the seat and the door, found the lever that

controlled his seat, and sent him reclining…all the way back. He slid his hands behind her knees and

pulled her even closer, sank into her even deeper. “Like that,” he gasped, let her inch up, and then

brought her down on him again, appreciating the extra depth provided by the new angle. “Just like

that.”

Her feet slid into the gap between the seat and driver’s side door, on one side, and the center

console on the other. “My heels—let me take them off. They’re going to tear the leather—”

His lungs were on fire. His balls were slowly being sawed off by his zipper. None of it mattered.

“I don’t care. Rip the seat to shreds, just don’t stop.”

God bless her, she dug those high heels in and increased the pace.

Their bodies slapped together. “Jesus,” he heard someone swear from a long way off. Jesus, Jesus,

Jesus, in time with every slap of flesh against sweaty flesh. Then she tensed up, grabbed a handful of

his hair in an iron grip, and stared down at him, into him, as if he was the only person in her universe.

“Michael,” she sobbed. A tear rolled to the end of her lashes, trembled there for a second, and then

broke free, leaving a wet trail down her cheek.

His heart stopped cold, paralyzed by the sudden fear he’d hurt her, but she hugged him to her and

murmured, “So good. You make me feel so good. After all this time, I’m glad it’s you.”

And then he knew. He was her first since the divorce. A mix of emotions swirled in his chest, but

all he could say was, “Chloe,” through a throat as scratchy as sandpaper. And then he lost himself,

driving into her blindly and holding her tight while the world spun away, and his body came home,

and a voice somewhere inside him wondered how he’d ever let go.

Chapter Thirteen

“Yeah, baby. That’s right. Straight down the line. Stay on it…stay on it…fuck me, did you see that?”

Dane cheered and jostled Michael’s beer in the process, but he forgave his friend because he had to

admit the inning-closing double play the Padres just pulled off was a thing of beauty. And passing a

few hours on the shady side of the stadium, watching the Padres annihilate the Nationals, wasn’t a bad

way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

The players hit the dugouts. Dane sat back, smiling, and turned to Michael. “How’s your back

holding up?”

“Fine. Not a twinge since Friday.”

“Awesome. A good masseuse can work miracles. I’ll bet you’re a believer now.”

Michael didn’t offer a response, and Dane didn’t seem to expect one. “I’ll schedule you for an MRI

next week and we’ll see how things look. Maybe get you into the cockpit sooner than expected.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“And speaking of good masseuses…how’s the wife?”

He didn’t waste his breath correcting Dane. “She’s good.” Too quiet and too still. After all the

fireworks last night, she’d been subdued on the way home. Normally, he appreciated a relaxed,

peaceful drive as much as the next guy, but there was nothing peaceful or relaxed about her silence.

Quiet Chloe had him worried. Yes, she’d gone along when he’d tugged her to his bed, and she’d

stayed all night—sleeping with the abandon of a four-year-old, stealing all the covers and more than

her fair share of the mattress real estate in the process—but it didn’t do much to dispel his impression

something troubled her. She’d been pensive this morning.

“How come she didn’t join us? I could have scored an extra ticket.”

“She’s not much of a baseball fan.” Which he understood, given her past, but, then again, something

in her expression told him she would have declined no matter what the activity, so he couldn’t lay her

absence at her ex’s doorstep.

Dane sipped his beer. “Ah well. Nobody’s perfect. What’s she up to this afternoon?”

He had an inexplicable vision of her packing her stuff, and an equally inexplicable, completely

knee-jerk compulsion to rush home and make sure she was still there. He forced his muscles to relax,

stared at the field, and shook his head. “I don’t know. She said something about freeing her Chi.”

“Huh. What’s that mean?”

“No clue.”

“Sounds hot, though.”

Michael wasn’t so sure.

…

Chloe stood on a chair and taped the roll of aluminum foil to the top of the bathroom door. Once

secured, she stepped off the chair, carefully rolled the foil down the back of the door, and cut it on the

serrated edge of the box. She smoothed the length of foil against the door, making it as flat and shiny

as possible. When her blurry, slightly distorted reflection stared back at her, she got down on her

knees and taped the hanging end of the foil under the door. Then she sat back, tipped her head to the

side, and squinted at the copy of Everyday Feng Shui lying on the carpet beside her.

She’d already decluttered the living spaces, as she’d promised Michael, and, coincidentally, the

book recommended. Now the items on display served a purpose, which she figured a purpose-driven

guy like Michael would appreciate. The grouping of red candles on an end table symbolized fire. The

green beads she strung through the light fixture over the dining room table represented wood. The blue

silk scarf draped along the back of the sofa symbolized water. Her pair of espresso-colored throw

pillows stacked in the corner of the living room symbolized earth, and the trio of nail polishes she

grouped on the kitchen counter, in shades of gray, silver, and white represented metal.

All five feng shui elements were present and accounted for, and everything sat in the locations

recommended by the book. Unfortunately, just arranging the elements wasn’t going to do the job of

improving the Chi, because if she was reading the darn Bague map correctly, the wealth/blessings

area of this home sat squarely in the middle of the bathroom. Any good fortune coming her way was

getting flushed right down the toilet. The thing to do, according to the Symbolic Practice experts, was

deflect the positive energy to a more secure, comfortable place—make the Chi welcome and convince

it to hang around.

Now her escaping Chi would bounce off the foil, and…she tracked it’s trajectory with her eyes.

Flow back into the living area and…smack into Michael’s massive flat-screen TV. After that, who

knew? But, if she switched the couch and the TV around, her Chi could land on a nice, big sofa, and

hopefully, snuggle in.

Inspired, she marched out to the living room and eyed the monster TV. More than just a television

actually. There were all kinds of components tucked into the base of the sleek, hardwood easel

housing the big screen. Happily, the whole thing sat on casters. A peek behind the screen revealed a

convoluted twist of wires running from the TV to the other devices, and several electrical cords

plugged into a surge protector connected to a wall socket, but, luckily, no cable coming out of a wall

jack. Gotta love Wi-Fi. She straightened. Power everything down, unplug the surge protector, roll the

media shrine to the opposite wall, and reconnect. How hard could it be?

An hour later, she had the TV and all its mysterious accessories positioned along the proper wall

for maximum Chi flow, but the sofa was another matter. It wasn’t on wheels and moving the heavy,

awkward piece more than a few inches at a time required more raw strength than she could muster.

All she had to show for forty minutes of pushing? Sweat dampening the front of her pale gray,

cropped yoga tank, and the back of the matching, low-rise, fold-over pants, and, oh yeah, a sofa

stalled lengthwise between the dining and living area. She kicked the blasted thing with her bare foot,

but only succeeded in stubbing her toe.

Nerves jangled when she heard the front door open. She looked up as Michael and Dane walked

into the apartment, made their way past the kitchen to the dining/living area. Michael’s eyes lit when

they landed on her, and her heart rolled over in her chest like a puppy hoping for a belly rub. Then he

took in the state of the apartment and froze.

His eyes narrowed as he looked around, and suddenly she saw the room from his perspective—

beads strung through the dining room light fixture, nail polish on the kitchen counter, throw pillows in

the corner. Uh-oh. Those same eyes went wide and more than a little anxious as he scanned his no

doubt expensive entertainment system neatly positioned along the new wall.

“What the hell, Chloe?”

She blew her hair off her sweaty forehead and scratched her nose. “I can explain.” Maybe she

should have asked his permission before rearranging his space, even if he would benefit from the

improved Chi flow as much, if not more, than she. “I think I mentioned this morning that I felt my Chi

was blocked?

“You did. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I figured unblocking your Chi might involve a

trip to the drugstore. Never, in a million years, did I think it involved fucking with my FiOS.”

She was hot and tired, defensive, and, God save her, the combination brought out her temper. “I

didn’t fuck with anything, and your Chi is blocked too, mister, so this helps you as much as it helps

me. What you see here is the ancient Chinese science of feng shui.” She pointed to the book on the

coffee table. Dane picked it up and, helpfully, held it aloft.

“It wouldn’t kill you to keep an open mind,” she added.

“My mind is plenty open, and so are my eyes. You know what’s blocked? My access to the hall.

There’s a goddamn sofa in the way.” He picked up the remote control from its built-in ledge in the TV

stand, hit power, and ran the setup through its paces. Apparently satisfied everything worked he

returned the remote to its holster.

“I told you I didn’t mess it up. Look, the problem is very simple. The Chi—positive energy, I guess

you’d call it—coming into this place is flowing straight down the toilet and dragging all prospects for

wealth and blessings along with it.”

“Great. Now it has to hurdle a six-foot sofa to get to the toilet, and so do I. Nice strategy.”

“Oh, for goodness sake. The sofa isn’t staying there. It’s supposed to go here,” she pointed to the

empty wall.

“Hey guys, this sounds like a job for Super-Dane.”

“It’s my apartment. I’ll do it,” Michael said irritably.

Dane’s no overlapped hers. “Your back is still healing,” she said. “You are the last person on my

furniture-moving help list.”

She looked over at the tall, rangy blond who was clearly enjoying the show. He grinned and walked

to the other end of the sofa. “Where do you want this bad boy, sweetheart?”

“Centered along the wall there.”

“Okay. Count of three, I’ll pull, you push.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at him and moved into “push” position.

A minute later they had the sofa exactly where she’d envisioned it. Dane stood back, brushed his

palms over his thighs, and admired the room. “This is actually a better arrangement. Now you won’t

get a glare from the window on the TV.”

She shot Dane a grateful smile and glanced at Michael from under lowered lashes as he assessed

the room. Even with his scruffy jaw and hand-combed hair, wearing a T-shirt from a local surf shop

and a pair of wash-worn cargo shorts, he looked every inch a marine—a cranky, disgruntled marine.

Her temper faded in the face of his unease and guilt set in. No matter how good her intentions, her

spur-of-the-moment redecorating had perturbed his sense of order. This was his home, and if he

wanted his Chi running down the toilet, that was his business. She crossed her arms and massaged her

overtaxed biceps and delts. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you before I started moving your furniture

around.”

He closed the distance between them, shoed her hands away, and spread his wide, warm palms

over her sore muscles. “I’m sorry I snapped. Walking in to find everything moved around kind of took

me by surprise.”

A throat cleared on the other side of the room, and then Dane said, “Gosh, look at the time. I gotta

get going. No, no. Don’t mind me. I’ll see myself out.” A second later the sound of the door closing

reached her ears.

“If you really don’t like it, I’ll put everything back.”

“Give me a little while to adjust now that you’ve got everything where you want it. Who am I to

reject ancient Chinese science out of hand?” With that, he gave her shoulders a last squeeze and then

walked into the kitchen. He returned a minute later carrying two uncapped beers and offered her one.

“The room looks good this way.”

She accepted the bottle and bit back a grin at the reluctant compliment. A grateful sigh escaped her

as she took a sip and lowered herself to the couch.

He sat on the coffee table, directly in front of her, spreading his legs so his knees bracketed her

thighs, and then leaned forward until his forearms rested on his legs. The position put his head below

hers. He looked up at her from under his dark, slightly furrowed brows. “Why the sudden desire to

improve your Chi?”

She stared at the thin, white scar on his wrist, and, because her restless fingers needed something to

do, pulled her ponytail holder out of her hair, and tossed it on the end table. “It could stand some

improvement, don’t you think? I mean, I’m sitting here with no job, no car, and no savings, wearing

out my welcome until my luck changes, so”—she shrugged—“I figured this was worth a try.”

“You’re not wearing out your welcome.” The words were quiet but firm. “I may have to get used to

the feng shui, but I like having you here, okay?”

“Yeah, right. Unexpected guests are never easy to live with, and I know I bring a thousand

annoyances to the table. Plus, there’s no way you like me treating your guest room like a baggage

check, or having my crap strewn all over your house for the next four weeks.” She pointed to the end

table where she’d tossed her ponytail holder. It had landed on top of a pile of her “crap,” including

her tube of lip plumper, which she’d found behind the couch of all places, a stack of silver bangles

she’d had on before she’d started moving furniture, and a wadded up dollar bill. “You’re one of those

a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place people, which is good feng shui, by the way.”

“I like to know where to find things. I don’t know if it’s feng shui, or having roommates for too long

during my formative years, but too much stuff around me makes me feel hemmed in and disorganized.

That said, our situation is temporary, and I’ll trying to go with the flow.” He reached over and picked

up the bracelets and lip plumper. “To be honest, your crap fascinates me. Having you here is like

visiting a foreign land.” He gave the tube a perplexed look. “Or planet.”

She laughed and held out her hands for her things. “You’re fascinated by lip plumper and costume

jewelry?”

“See, I would have called it lip gunk, because up ’til this moment, ‘lip plumper’ wasn’t in my

vocabulary. I’m learning a whole new culture. What the heck is lip plumper?”

Instead of answering, she gave him a demo. She smoothed some over her lips and smacked them

together as the active ingredient kicked in and made her feel like she’d just kissed a Jalapeño. “It

makes your lips fuller…more kissable.”

His eyes locked on her mouth. “You don’t need it,” he said and proceeded to show her just how

kissable he found her. When he pulled back, he stared into her eyes for a full second and then

growled, “Holy shit. What the hell is happening to my lips?”

Another laugh slipped out before she could stifle her amusement. “Lip plumper tingles a little.”

“Tingles?” He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “It burns like napalm.”

“You get used to it.” She sipped her beer to hide a smile and watched him scrub his lips clean.

“Still find my crap fascinating? Because I think I just proved my point.”

By way of answer, he simply leaned in and kissed her again. Slowly. Deliberately brushing his lips

over hers. By the time he drew back she had her eyes closed and her arms twined around his neck.

She forced her heavy eyelids open and stared at him.

He gave her a slow, satisfied smile. “I think I just proved my point.”

Her heart slipped out of its life jacket and paddled toward the deep end of stupid, where the water

was way over its head.

“And your point was?”

“Don’t stress about your Chi or your luck or wearing out your welcome.” He looked like he wanted

to say something more, but then he stopped and smiled. “Would it settle you down if I told you you’re

the best roommate I’ve ever had?”

Uh-oh. That heart of hers just kept drifting deeper and deeper. “Really?”

“No contest. Of course, you have to keep in mind that Trevor was my first. He refused to let me

have the top bunk and enjoyed throwing his blankets over me while I slept, so I woke up in a sweaty,

claustrophobic cocoon every morning. My next roommate was my younger brother Logan, who

bitched incessantly because I refused to let him have the top bunk, even though he walked in his sleep

at least three times a week until he hit puberty. Oh, yeah, I’ve also roomed in a barracks with forty

belching, farting marines.”

No women, she noted, and tried to pop the idiotic bubble of happiness swelling in her chest at the

realization.

“You really think you can live with the room this way?”

He glanced around, then back to her, and inspected her from top to bottom, until every erogenous

zone in her body felt like it had been kissed with lip plumper. “My Chi’s flowing better already.”

Chapter Fourteen

“You have to get me out of here, Lynne. I’ll take any assignment, anywhere. I’ll take receptionist,

orderly…janitor.” Chloe clutched the phone to her ear and stared blindly out the living room window

at the sun shining over the San Onofre Mountains.

“What’s wrong?” Concern laced Lynne’s voice. “Has Major Hottie turned out to be a major

asshole?”

“No.” She swallowed the bubble of panic trying to rise in her throat. “No. He’s…” Perfect. “I just

can’t stay.”

“He asked you to leave?”

“No. He told me I could stay as long as I needed, but I have to do some…um…damage control—”

“Uh-oh. Dinner Saturday night blew your cover, and his boss figured out your engagement isn’t

real?”

“Saturday went fine.” Too good. “We fooled them.” And she was fooling herself if she thought she

could live with Michael for the next few weeks without falling for him the same inevitable way an

apple falls out of a tree. He was gravity and whatever wings she’d grown were useless against his

pull.

“So, why the rush to leave? Especially when I’ve got a dream job lined up for you in New

Mexico.”

Because this guy already owns every inch of my body, and if I hang around much longer, he’s

going to own my heart, too.

“During dinner with the Hardings I kind of insinuated I would be looking for a permanent position

locally now that Michael and I are getting married. This morning, Loretta Harding called to say she

mentioned me to a friend of hers who owns Veronica’s Oasis—a day spa here in San Clemente, just a

couple blocks from the apartment. Wouldn’t you know, Veronica is looking to add to her roster of

massage therapists, so, long story short, tomorrow morning I have an interview.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, uh-oh. If she offers me a job, I’m screwed.” Her chest tightened, as if already squeezed in a

trap.

“Well, now…maybe not.”

“No, I am. I’ve already thought about this every which way. If she extends an offer, I have to find

some reasonable grounds for turning it down, because, obviously, I can’t accept and then up and leave

in a few weeks. That wouldn’t be right.”

“What if it’s a great job? Keep your mind and your options open, because, much as I hate to lose

you, you might actually want to accept the position.”

“I won’t. I like the excitement of being a traveling therapist.” That was her story and she was

sticking to it, even though New Mexico was starting to sound more lonely than exciting. “But even if I

fell in love with the opportunity, I can’t accept because then Michael and I are stuck in the fake

engagement.”

“Stuck-schmuck. Get a paycheck under your belt so you can afford your own place and then go

ahead and have your fake breakup. The only difference is, instead of moving to a different state, you

move to a different apartment. Happens all the time.”

“Not to me. It’s too messy, and it means extending the amount of time I stay with Michael, because

it would take a while to save up first, last, and a security deposit. I can’t do it. I need a clean break.”

“I’ve got your clean break coming the first week of June. That’s the best I can do.”

So much for improving her luck through the magic and science of feng shui. “All right. Keep me—”

“I know, I know. I’ll call you if any jobs come up before then. In the meantime, remember what I

said. Keep your mind and your options open.”

“I get the feeling you want to keep your options open.” Veronica put Chloe’s résumé aside and smiled

at her from across the clean, white desk in her clean, white office.

Chloe returned the smile and hoped hers didn’t look as strained as she felt. “I sort of do. You have

a great operation here, and I’m very tempted by your offer, but—”

Veronica waved a hand. “Hey, you don’t have to explain. You’ve just moved in with your fiancé,

you’ve got a wedding to plan, and a honeymoon, and the weight of all that is forcing the rest of your

life up in the air right now.”

“Yeah.” And the weight of all the dishonesty was forcing her eyes to the floor. Veronica turned out

to be nothing she’d expected. Going strictly by looks, the dark-eyed, raven-haired spa-owner was

only a handful of years older than she. Maybe twenty-nine, at the outside. She’d opened her business

four years earlier as a massage-therapy practice, and then branched out into a full-service day spa.

Now she employed a staff of twenty, including massage therapists, estheticians, nail techs, and

support personnel. The whitewashed, cottage-y space offered state-of-the-art treatments in a

comfortable atmosphere. A casual, relaxed vibe prevailed, despite the steady stream of clients. Just

the kind of place Chloe would have pictured if someone had asked her to describe the perfect spa.

Veronica tapped Chloe’s résumé. “You have great experience, and, based on our conversation, I

think you’d be a really good fit here. Your philosophy on health, wellness, and client service matches

ours. God knows we could use the extra hands.” She rested her forearms on her desk and leaned in,

giving Chloe a contemplative look. “It also sounds like you’re happy with Helping Hands, so maybe

we shouldn’t mess with a good thing. I have a proposal. How about I contract for your services

through Helping Hands? We can start on a part-time basis, booking you for days when we’re doing

bachelorette parties, bridal parties, and other occasions where we get hit with lots of clients at once.

What do you say?”

Well damn. How could she say no? More troubling, she didn’t want to. “I say sounds like a plan.”

…

“I made the ‘discrete inquiry’ you requested.”

Michael pulled into his parking spot at Casa Clemente and took his phone off speaker so Dane’s

voice no longer flooded the interior. “What did you find out?”

“I spoke to the owner of the Camp Pendleton Massage Therapy Clinic under the guise of seeking a

reference for Chloe. He told me they were pleased with her skills, but Sempler terminated her

assignment because their current patient load didn’t require an additional pair of hands. I also made a

discrete inquiry to a certain lady friend of mine who is part of Harding’s support staff, and she

assured me Harding has received no complaints about anyone under his command.”

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 screamed 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.

She valued honesty, and he’d handed her some. Even if it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, she

couldn’t fault his observations. There were big inconsistencies between what she was saying and how

she was behaving. Her plan had been to land in San Clemente, add a few personal touches to a

generic apartment, get to know a new set of neighbors and coworkers—but not so intimately she’d

miss anyone when she moved on. What had she done instead? Gotten to know one neighbor pretty

darn intimately.

Huge mistake, because if she let herself, she could picture a life here in San Clemente, with a

regular job, friends who knew her birthday, and her background, and occasionally called her Scarlett

just to be funny. She could fall for this place and this job…and this man.

Okay, yes, no point in denying it. She could tattoo a hummingbird on her butt, or a roadrunner

across her dang forehead, but some weak, stupid part of her that never learned wanted to be with

Michael, which was crazy, because they’d only known each other a short time and he served his

country and despite managing to convince everyone else to the contrary, they couldn’t be more wrong

for each other.

Falling for him ran afoul of every personal goal she’d set for herself after the long, painful self-

assessment she’d made following her divorce. Falling for him meant she’d made no progress at all

over the last year. Her heart clenched at the thought…and her bladder followed suit. She sighed and

hauled herself to the bathroom.

Afterward, she crept out to the kitchen for something to drink, but stopped short in the archway

when she saw Michael standing by the fridge, downing a glass of water. Barefoot and shirtless, he

wore the same dark blue sweatpants he’d had on earlier, with the white letters, USMC emblazoned

down the side of one leg. They hung low on his hips, revealing the long, powerful lines of his back,

all the way from his broad, invincible shoulders to the twin dimples bracketing the base of his spine.

Before she fully realized she’d put herself in motion, she came up behind him, wrapped her arms

around his waist, and pressed her cheek to his warm, smooth skin. He didn’t so much as jump, which

told her he’d known she was there, but when she would have drawn away he covered her hands with

his and held her in place.

Apologize and back away. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, but her rebellious arms just hugged him

tighter. “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat for expressing your opinion, or lashed out at you

because we’re in a situation where we have to be less than honest with people. You’re doing that to

help me, and I am grateful.”

He turned and folded her in his arms, bringing her into the safe harbor of his chest. She breathed

deeply. The clean, slightly herbal scent of his bath soap lingered on him.

His chin brushed the top of her head, and he followed that up with a kiss. “No, I’m the sorry one.

You have to run your life your way. You didn’t ask for my opinion, and, considering I share the blame

for the situation, I’m in no position to criticize or give advice. I acted like a dick.”

“You’re under a lot of stress, and I’m a natural irritant.” She looked up at him and tried for a smile.

“I warned you I’m not easy to live with.”

Serious brown eyes stared back at her—no trace of amusement—as he touched her cheek with

gentle fingers, sweeping down to her jaw. “You’re too easy to live with,” he said softly and covered

her mouth with his.

She dove into the kiss, trying to use it to convey all the emotions swirling around inside her.

Protective instincts told her to pull back, because one way or another, she would be moving on soon.

Why make things harder? But the rest of her recognized the heartbreak of leaving had become

inevitable. Pulling back now only hastened the pain.

Maybe he could read her thoughts, because he seemed to understand she was sinking. He cupped

the back of her head, changed the angle of the kiss, and took them under.

In contrast to the way he laid claim to her mouth, his hands stayed chastely above her neck, his

fingers lightly tracing her jaw. That left her hands free to roam—across the rounded muscles of his

shoulders, down his hard chest, along the sloped contours of his abdomen.

When her fingers reached the waistband of his sweats, he broke the kiss long enough to murmur,

“Forgive me?”

“Nothing to forgive,” she said between quick nibbles along his jaw, and then she was moving

backward. He navigated them out of the kitchen, through the living area, down the hall, and, much to

her relief, he bypassed the guest room and steered her directly into his room…into his bed.

He stood before her, his fingers laced through her hair, staring down at her with an expression she

couldn’t name, but nonetheless did crippling things to her already vulnerable heart—a look

guaranteed to make her say or do something stupid if she didn’t find a distraction. Now. Luckily a

perfect distraction hovered within easy reach. She yanked his sweats down. He swore as the

waistband snagged on the head of his erection and dragged it down too, and then swore again when it

sprang free and bobbed back up like a buoy.

“Sorry,” she murmured, “let me kiss it better.” She slid her hands around and held onto his smooth,

firm glutes, lowered her head, and set about making the unintentional abuse up to him. Within

moments all was forgiven, judging by the gasps and groans coming out of him. His body pulsed in her

mouth. His muscles went rock hard beneath her palms. She brought one hand around front and cupped

his balls, feeling them draw up even as she closed her fingers.

She thought she had him past the point of no return, but suddenly, he said, “No more,” in a harsh

whisper. The fingers in her hair tightened a little, holding her head still while he withdrew from her

mouth. “I can’t take anymore. I have to be inside you.” He kicked his sweats off and pushed her back

onto the bed.

She hit the mattress with a hushed thump and crossed her arms above her head while she watched

him get ready.

He dug a condom out of his nightstand drawer, ripped it open, and rolled it on. His eyes found hers

in the shadowy room and bored into her. She shivered as he slid a hand between her thighs and then

gasped when he rimmed her opening. Before she caught her breath, he plunged a finger deep, and her

body clenched desperately around him.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “I love to feel you quiver for me. I want to watch while I stroke you until

those quivers turn to trembles—until you’re shaking all the way down to your toes.”

He flipped her sleep shirt up to her waist, baring her to his gaze, and she worried she was going to

come right then and there. How did he do this to her? She’d never been so constantly, effortlessly

ready. He worked another finger into her and her moan slipped out before she could stop it.

“I know,” he said sympathetically. “I’ve got my hands full here, but that sweet little clit looks so

neglected. Don’t worry. I can troubleshoot this.” He knelt down, parted her thighs wider, and kissed

her, front and center and right on target. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but she couldn’t stop

herself from planting the soles of her feet on his shoulders and rocking up into the kiss. When he

started in on her with his tongue, and, sweet Jesus, his teeth, she flung her forearm over her eyes and

sobbed, “Please. Oh, God. Please. I need you.”

He kissed her thigh. Her stomach. Her pounding heart. “Me, too.” Then he slowly withdrew from

her, took her hand, and wrapped her fingers around the base of his erection.

She guided him in. He kept as still as possible, which set off alarm bells in her brain at first

because she feared he’d aggravated his back, but then she registered his closed eyes and deep breaths

and realized he was holding himself in check, trying to let her come first. There was something so

disarming and, at the same time, unspeakably sexy about all that masculine restraint. She molded her

hands along the small of his back and pressed down carefully.

His low, shuddery moan sounded suspiciously like a plea for more. She took him in deep and then

wriggled her hips from side to side, just to work him in a little…bit…deeper.

“Ah shit,” he groaned, “don’t,” and he thrust once. Just like that, all the restraint evaporated. He

drove into her, again and again, and she watched as he clenched his jaw, furrowed his brow, and

surrendered every ounce of discipline and control to something too powerful for even big, bad, Major

Michael McCade to withstand.

A need she’d unleashed in him, she thought proudly, just before he surged forward and brought his

head down next to hers. He hiked her legs up high and thrust into her one last time. And then thought

became impossible because her senses took over. His ragged cry of relief filled her ears, sent a trail

of heat along her spine, into her abdomen, and down between her legs. Tremors started somewhere

deep within and radiated out like shockwaves. The next moment, all the tension and pressure inside

her exploded. A storm of sensation swept through her, and everything else in the world faded, save

for the feel of Michael holding her as if he’d never let go. But he will let go, her inner voice warned.

Everybody does.

…

“Your brother says your back is still bothering you. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m a doctor, for Christ’s

sake. I should be the first person you call when you’re not feeling well. ”

Michael stepped out of the imaging center and stared up at the cloudless blue southern California

sky. Hopefully he didn’t look like a man planning a murder, but, inside his mind, he was picturing

strangling Trevor. Slowly. With his bare hands.

“You’re a pediatrician.”

“I have contacts.”

“I’m fine, Mom. The pain is gone. I just had a follow-up MRI this afternoon, and I have an

appointment with Dane on Friday to go over the results.”

“Do you need me to come down and take care of you? Go with you to the appointment?”

He gave her a long-suffering sigh. “Absolutely not. Mom, I’m the Marines’ problem now. You can

stop worrying about me.” Start worrying about your oldest son, because he’s the one about to get

his ass kicked.

“It’s a mother’s prerogative to worry. You’ll understand when you have kids of your own.”

Uh-oh. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. He and Logan had assumed Trevor tying the knot

would ease the parental pressure on them, but so far, no dice. His mother was staring down the big

six-oh next month. She wanted grandkids, and she wanted them yesterday.

“I enjoyed speaking to Chloe last night.”

He reached his Jeep, leaned against the driver’s side, and considered faking a bad connection.

“Yeah, she mentioned you called.” Time to change the topic. “Listen, what do you want for your

birthday?” He’d taken care of the birthday present weeks ago. He, Trevor, and Logan went thirds on

an Alaskan Cruise his mom had talked about taking for ages. Chloe’s birthday was coming soon, and

he needed to plan—

“She told me you two are friends.”

So much for a topic change. “That’s true.”

“She also mentioned you were in the shower when I called.”

“Also true.” But he braced for whatever she threw at him next.

“She’s one of those friends you invite over at shower time?”

“I can’t…you. Think we have…bad connection.”

“Don’t lie to your mother. There’s not a thing wrong with this connection. I want to meet Chloe.

That’s what I want for my birthday.”

Invite her to meet his parents? God, no. He’d spent the better part of last night facing some brutal

truths. He was falling in love with her. He wanted her to stay. And he was pretty damn sure she was

falling, too. But her fears erected huge barriers against any kind of relationship between them. If he

wanted to breach those barriers, he had to move slowly and strategically. Let his migratory

houseguest think they were just messing around until she’d nested so completely she couldn’t imagine

flying the coop. Asking commitment-phobic Chloe to meet his parents was neither slow nor strategic.

It would trigger every flight instinct she possessed.

“Mom, I don’t think—”

“Sorry, sweetie. Can’t…hear you. Must be…bad connection.”

The dial tone came through loud and clear.

Fuck. He looked around, automatically seeking an escape route from the trap he’s walked into when

he’d called his mom. The flower shop across the street caught his eye. He jogged over and, in a few

minutes, picked out a bouquet of happy-looking blooms with a pale, honey-orange color that reminded

him of Chloe’s hair. Whittling away at her defenses required subtlety, not the head-on attack he’d

launched during dinner last night. A congratulations-on-your-first-day-of-work bouquet seemed like a

step in the right direction, followed by a celebratory dinner out somewhere nice, because as much as

she might deny it, Chloe liked wine and candlelight. She liked romance. It was time he gave her some.

Besides, he justified as he started the Jeep, he did hope she’d had a great first day at this new job. He

hoped she liked it so much she decided to stay.

Ten minutes later he walked into his apartment. “Chloe?”

“In here.”

He stepped into the living room and blinked. She sat on the sofa in her little purple robe, with her

hair tied into a bundle at the top of her head, and something that looked like mint-green frosting

slathered over her entire face except for her eyes and mouth. Her feet rested on the coffee table,

amidst a war chest of…products. Tortuous-looking toe spreaders separated her freshly painted

toenails.

“Flower delivery for Chloe Kincaid.”

She beamed, which caused her frosting masque to crack, and held out her hands for the bouquet.

He pulled the flowers out of her reach. “Not so fast. I’m going to need some proof of your identity.”

Her smile turned a little wicked—or maybe that was just the green gunk working on his mind—then

she stood, turned around, and flipped the back of her robe up to flash him her tattoo. She turned back

around, still grinning. “Does that work?”

He handed her the bouquet and discreetly adjusted himself so his dick wasn’t straining against the

seam of his pants. “I’ll accept that as preliminary ID. Later, I’m going to need to see it again and make

a closer inspection.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

He shrugged. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it. You don’t want to get me in trouble, do

you?”

“Heaven forbid.” She buried her face in the big blossoms and breathed them in. “These are

beautiful. How did you know peonies were my favorite?”

“Lucky guess. They reminded me of you—pretty and exuberant.”

Her eyes shifted to his face, and lingered. He had a funny feeling she was blushing under the

frosting and gave himself a mental high five.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I was thinking about you. Hoping your first day at the new job went well.”

“Really well. Thanks. Let me put these in water.”

“I’ll do it.” He took the flowers and headed to the kitchen. “Tell me about your day,” he said as he

dug in a cabinet for a jar to put the flowers in.

“The staff is awesome. The place is busy—I had a steady stream of clients all day—and I made

great tips. Veronica and a couple of the other girls took me to lunch at this amazing taco place down

the street.”

He wandered back into the living room to discover her removing the green mask with some kind of

clear liquid and a cotton pad. He put the “vase” on the coffee table. “Sounds perfect.”

“Yeah.” The wistful note in her response hung in the air as she finished wiping her face and then

leaned forward and started arranging the flowers, unconsciously giving him a view down the front of

her robe.

Speaking of perfect.

He caught himself drumming a nervous beat on his leg and forced his hand to still. “Want to

celebrate a triumphant first day?”

“Sure.” Before he could guess her next move, she stood, slipped out of her robe and walked over

until they stood mere inches apart. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“I was thinking dinner,” he admitted, before he leaned down and kissed her.

“Dinner can wait. I can’t.”

Chapter Sixteen

“I don’t want to freak you out, Chloe, but I have to mention the L-word.”

Chloe used her shoulder to hold the phone to her ear and finished typing a note into a client file in

the Veronica’s Oasis database. The low hum of conversation flowed around her as she sat in front of

the computer at the spa’s front-desk area. Not loud, by any means, but she wasn’t sure she’d heard

correctly. “What?”

Lynne laughed. “I checked in with Veronica earlier today and, it’s official. She’s in love with you.”

Chloe smiled, and waved to a departing client. “I’m awfully fond of her, too.” Three days on the

job, and the spa already felt like…well…like home.

“No problems? No concerns? No funny business with your time cards?”

“None. Everyone is easygoing, but professional. This place runs very smoothly. It’s not a one-man

operation, like Sempler’s clinic.”

“Good to hear. Now that I know the assignment is under control, let’s get to the really juicy stuff.

How’s the rest of your life going?”

A memory of Michael bending her over the sofa and inspecting her “identification” popped into her

mind and her heart did a tap dance in her chest. “Can’t complain. Michael brought me flowers

Wednesday to celebrate my—”

“Oh! Oh…!”

Her friend sounded as if she were in the grip of a sharp pain. Chloe pressed the phone to her ear.

“Lynne, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing…just a little heart palpitation over the flowers. The last time a man brought me flowers I

was in the hospital, recovering from birthing his second oversize baby.”

“Jeez.” She let her breath hiss out. “Very funny. You scared the crap out of me.”

“But the flowers didn’t, which I find interesting. Any big plans with Major Hottie this weekend?”

For some reason she glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. Nobody was. “Not really.

We’re just going to hang out. Relax.”

“Sounds cozy.”

“Yeah. I guess so. He mentioned taking me out to dinner.”

“Where?”

“There’s an Italian place he likes in Dana Point. Good food and a great view of the harbor.” She

caught herself using her thumb to center her “engagement ring” on her finger. The move was becoming

a habit. Funny, she’d never fussed with her real engagement ring overly much.

“So, this would be, like…a date?”

“Yeah right. I don’t date military men. You know this.”

“Hmm.”

“What, ‘Hmm’? What’s ‘Hmm,’ supposed to mean?”

“Okay, Chlo, let’s conduct a reality check. You’ve found a job you like. You’ve found a guy you

like—more than like—hell, you’re living with the man and, from all accounts, the sex is off-the-charts

amazing. Are you sure you want the New Mexico assignment? It seems like things are working out for

you right there in San Clemente.”

Her heart stopped tap dancing because her chest suddenly felt way too tight—almost too tight to

breathe. “I’m sure,” she managed and then added in a strained whisper, “The thing between Michael

and me…it’s not real.”

“Looks pretty real from where I’m standing. Putting the fake engagement aside, he’s bringing you

flowers and taking you out for romantic dinners.”

Sweaty palms made it hard to hold the phone. She swiped her hand down her pink, satin cargo

Capris and switched the phone to her dry hand. “He’s being sweet. Yes, we get along, and yes,

we’re…enjoying each other…while I’m here, but that’s as far as it goes. That’s as far as it can go.”

“There’s more going on between the two of you than either of you wants to admit. Or maybe it’s

just you who doesn’t want to admit it.”

“There is nothing to admit.”

“Do you even realize your voice softens when you talk about him? You get very quiet and I can

practically picture you sitting there, daydreaming.”

“We’re friends. Okay, friends with benefits. Excellent, but extremely temporary benefits. He knows

it. I know it. End of story.” Did she sound panicked? Maybe, based on the concerned look the

receptionist was giving her from the other end of the desk. “I’m not ready for anything more.”

“Sometimes exactly what you need comes along, whether you’re ready or not. I remember the first

date I went on with my husband. You know what happened a week later?”

“No idea.”

“We got married. Have a nice weekend.”

…

Michael stared at the computer screen and watched blobs form, merge, and flow like some sort of

bizarre black-and-white lava lamp. One minute the image looked like a bat, then a balloon, then a

topographic map of the Alps. What it bore absolutely no resemblance to, as far as he could tell, was a

human spine.

But apparently Dane disagreed. He tapped his gold pen against his highly glossed cherrywood

desk, and stared at the screen. “I am a goddamn miracle worker, if I do say so myself.”

Michael squinted, but still couldn’t discern anything from the abstract images mutating on the

screen. “Where’s the miracle?”

“Right here.” Dane froze the image and drew an air circle around an area on the lower part of the

screen with the pen. “This is the disc you herniated, but you’d never know it, looking at the site now.

No swelling. No bulge. Nothing pressing on the nerve.” He turned to Michael. “You’re not still

feeling any twinges, are you?”

He shook his head. “None. Not for days. I feel one hundred percent.”

“Great. I’ll write up a report and shoot it to your CO. As far as I’m concerned, you’re good to go.”

Michael relaxed the shoulder muscles he hadn’t even realized he’d tightened. He sank back into

Dane’s guest chair. “Thanks.”

Dane swiveled his computer screen back around to face him. “I can’t take all the credit. You did

the exercises and took it easy on your back—sort of. And I’m sure Chloe’s magic hands played an

important role too.”

“Yeah,” was all he said. Thinking about Chloe’s magic hands, and every other magic part of her,

reminded him that their time together was limited unless he managed to work a little magic of his

own. His current battle plan tested his patience, because moving slowly made him all too aware he

was working against the clock.

“Uh-oh. Trouble there?”

“No. Just the opposite, actually. You know how Chloe feng shui’d the apartment, because all the

positive energy was getting flushed down the toilet?” He laughed, feeling a little self-conscious, and

ran his hand over the back of his head. “Well, suddenly, my back feels better. Next thing you know,

she’s got a job at a spa down the street from the apartment, and she loves it.”

“She found a job locally? That’s great…or maybe not,” his friend frowned as he considered the

implications. “I guess her sticking around kind of complicates things, given the engagement and all.”

His smile flatlined. “It’s a temporary job. She’s still planning to leave in a couple weeks, when the

next travel assignment starts.” A couple weeks. Tick-tock.

“Ah. Still got the big, ugly breakup on the horizon.”

Michael stared out the stingily small window in Dane’s office and watched the breeze ruffle the

fronds of the nearby palm trees. “Maybe.”

“You know, I don’t want to criticize, but for a guy who just got great news about his back, you look

pretty tragic. Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

He shifted his attention back to Dane. “Thanks, Dr. Freud, but I’ll pass.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t need to be a psychoanalyst to solve your problem. This is an easy situation.

Just ask her to stay.”

“It’s not that easy. Chloe’s not looking for a ‘stay’ situation, and, even if she was, she’s not a fan of

military life. On top of that, our Grandkid Story sucks.”

“I don’t care what she said in the beginning—okay, I’ll bite…what the hell is your Grandkid

Story?”

“Doesn’t matter.” But apparently it did, to Chloe. “All I’m saying is, it’s complicated, and

convincing her to stay will require some finesse. This is not a simple, put-my-cards-on-the-table

scenario.”

Dane dismissed the information with a wave of his hand. “All those complications will sort

themselves out. In the beginning, she didn’t have any reason to stick around. Now she does. Or she

would, if you’d man up and give her one.”

Michael stood and shook his head. “I realize you think you’ve got some special insight into the

female mind, but you don’t know what Chloe wants.”

“Maybe not. But I know what you want, and I know something else, too. If you don’t speak up,

you’re not going to get it.”

Chapter Seventeen

Michael woke to the sensation of warm hands sliding down his back. When soft lips and a nimble

tongue followed, trailing a line of wet heat along his spine, he cracked an eye open and stared at the

alarm clock. Eight forty-three. He’d been thinking it would be a nice change of pace to sleep in this

Saturday morning, but, as the sheet around his waist was suddenly jerked away, leaving him covered

by nothing but his boxer shorts, he supposed he could make an exception.

“Is this some new kind of massage?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Those lips got busy retracing their path. “Very therapeutic. Works out all the kinks.”

He closed his eyes and lowered his head to his folded arms. “Really? Because I’m feeling a

definite kink.”

“Uh-oh,” she said, with mock concern. “Can’t have that. Is it here?” She kissed the spot between

his shoulder blades.

“No.” He shifted his hips. “Lower.”

“Here?” She nibbled the small of his back.

“You’re warmer.”

“How about now?” She yanked his shorts down.

“Oh, shit…yeah, you’re warmer.”

Her hand sank between his legs, and up into the V of his thighs.

“Red hot,” he groaned when her fingertips grazed his balls. He flipped over and was about to show

her exactly where the kink was, when his doorbell rang.

They both froze. Her gaze leaped to his. “Did you have a gym date with Dane this morning?”

“No, but”—the insistent sound of knuckles on wood echoed through the apartment—“whoever it is

seems pretty damn sure I’m home.” He jerked his shorts up. “Let me get rid of them. I’ll be right

back.”

He swept his T-shirt off the bedroom floor and pulled it over his head on his way to the door. One

look through the peephole immediately sent what was left of his hard-on into full retreat and had him

uttering the only words that fit the situation. “Fuck me.” In his peripheral vision he saw Chloe wander

into the kitchen, wearing her purple robe and yawning as she headed to the coffeemaker. She paused

when she heard him curse and turned a curious look on him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and prayed for deliverance. None came. When he

opened his eyes and stared through the peephole again, the same familiar, slightly distorted face

stared back at him.

“Who’s at the door?”

“My parents.”

She dropped the stack of coffee filters she’d been holding. “Your parents?” A self-conscious hand

rose to her hair. The other straightened the front of her robe. “Should I hide?”

Knocking came again, followed by, “Michael? What did you say? Open the door. Your father and I

want to see for ourselves that you’re okay.”

He rolled his eyes. “No. Don’t hide. This is what they get for showing up unannounced.” Then he

opened the door.

His mom’s sharp brown eyes took in his bed-hair, rough jaw, and wrinkled underclothes. She,

conversely, looked perfectly trim and tidy in her white jeans and blue-and-white checked blouse. Not

a wisp of her short, sun-bleached blond hair appeared out of place. “Michael, honey, don’t tell me we

woke you up?”

After submitting to his mother’s hug and a clap on the shoulder from his dad, he replied, “No, you

didn’t wake me up. You didn’t wake Chloe either.” He gestured her over and she approached slowly,

looking equal parts amused and embarrassed. “Chloe, meet my parents, Tom and Anita. Parents, meet

Chloe.”

“Fortuitous,” his dad drawled and shook her hand, “since I’m pretty sure that’s why we’re here.

Nice to meet you.” Michael couldn’t help but grin at his father’s smoothly delivered poke at his mom.

His dad was a man of few words, but he hadn’t spent thirty-five years married to Mom without

learning a thing or two about how she operated.

His mom had the good grace to pretend to be abashed as she took Chloe’s hand. “Whoops! I see we

should have called first. Forgive us, please. This morning Tom and I made a spur-of-the-moment

decision to drive down to San Diego for the weekend, and we thought, as long as we were passing by,

we ought to stop and see son number two.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Chloe said, and the way her smile lit her eyes made Michael think she might

actually mean it.

“It’s wonderful to meet you in person,” his mom replied. “I hope you’ll let us take you two to

breakfast to make up for interrupting your morning.”

“Oh…I don’t want to intrude…” Chloe sent him an uncertain glance.

“Nonsense. We’re the intruders. Please join us.”

“Yeah,” Michael added, figuring Chloe’s presence would help defer a breakfast interrogation,

“join us.”

…

Chloe shifted in the cushioned seat and stared at the endless view of the Pacific twinkling in the

distance beyond the glass perimeter of the Coastline Café’s shaded patio. She still couldn’t quite

fathom how a quiet morning in bed for two had ended up as a table for four at what appeared to be

one of San Clemente’s most popular breakfast spots, but she couldn’t complain. The sun was shining,

her blueberry pancakes tasted like heaven, and she was getting an earful of Michael and his brothers’

childhood exploits.

“…and I looked up and saw my idiot son, dressed in nothing but socks and Spiderman underwear,

hanging from the trellis on the side of the house!”

“The idiot was Logan,” Michael said, pointing a fork at his mother, “and, in his defense, he was

five at the time.”

“It was Logan,” his father agreed, nodding so the sunlight picked up the silver strands in his deep

brown hair. Even with the hints of gray, it was obvious Michael got his coloring, and his stature, from

his dad.

“Yes, but I know who talked him into the whole harebrained idea,” she shot back, giving Michael a

hard stare.

He grinned. “Okay, yeah, that might have been me. Hey, he lived!” he added when his mom

smacked his arm.

“No thanks to you.” She shook her head. “What can I tell you, Chloe? Raising them was like raising

three hyperactive monkeys.”

“Sounds pretty wild.” And fun. As an only child, she’d often wished for siblings to play with. Share

secrets with. Get into trouble with. And although his mom made a show of complaining about the

crazy antics, both she and her husband clearly looked back on those wild years with nostalgia—

nostalgia born of knowing that phase of their lives was safely in the past. They’d raised three boys

they were proud of. She found the whole thing incredibly sweet.

Her pancakes were also incredibly sweet. She lifted another forkful to her mouth, and was about to

open wide when she saw Michael stiffen in his chair. His smile faded and every last bit of color

leaked out of his face.

Was he in pain? She lowered her fork and leaned close to him. “Are you—”

“Michael, Chloe,” a familiar voice rang out from behind her, “fancy meeting you here!”

Now she felt the blood drain out of her face too. Oh, dear God. Even her karma couldn’t possibly

be this bad…

Chapter Eighteen

“Mrs. Harding. Colonel,” Michael said, and stood, looking like a man facing a firing squad.

“Major.” The colonel clasped Michael’s hand. Loretta leaned in for a peck on the cheek.

Chloe plastered a smile on her face and, with the blueberry pancakes threatening a revolt in her

stomach, stood and turned to greet the couple. “So nice to see you again, Colonel,” she croaked—

there was no other word for the noise that passed over her frozen vocal chords—and offered her hand

—which he ignored and pulled her into a sideways embrace.

Her face turned into a furnace. Then the colonel passed her off to Loretta for another quick hug. The

older woman stepped away and her smile dimmed a few watts. “Are you okay, honey? You look pale,

and you sound a little hoarse.”

“I’m fine,” she managed and dropped back into her seat before her shaking legs failed her

completely.

“Well,” Loretta beamed at the other two people at the table. “I don’t even need to ask who these

lovely people are. The resemblance is so strong, you’re obviously Michael’s parents. You must be so

thrilled.”

Michael jumped in and performed introductions, successfully deflecting the “thrilled” comment.

Chloe let the “nice to meet yous” buzz around her while she tried not to pass out. Suddenly, Loretta

grabbed her left hand.

“Oh, no. Where’s that beautiful engagement ring?”

And, just like that, all the oxygen left the room. She gasped like a hooked carp and glanced

helplessly at Michael.

“We’re…uh…getting it sized. It was too big.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. He’d never looked

this pained during the worst of his back spasms.

“Engagement ring?” Michael’s mother said softly.

Chloe stared down at her lap and prayed a freak bolt of lightning would strike her and put her out of

her misery.

“Yeah. Mom. Dad. I was working on a time to announce this properly…um”—his hand opened and

closed as he grasped for the right word—“formally, but…I asked Chloe to marry me recently and she

said yes. We’re engaged.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Even the conversation at the nearby tables ceased. Then

Anita got up, stone-faced, and walked over to her son. When they stood toe-to-toe, she smacked his

chest. “The proper time to announce your engagement would have been as soon as she said yes. I’m

furious, and, well…hurt…that you didn’t tell us immediately, but,” she went on when Michael opened

his mouth to speak, “more importantly, I’m incredibly happy you’ve found the woman you want to

spend your life with.” So saying, she took him by the shoulders and hugged him harder than a woman

her size seemed capable. “Oh, honey. I’m so happy for you.” She drew back, kissed his cheek, and

stepped away to let his father have a crack at him.

His dad beamed, clasped his son around the shoulders, and offered quiet congratulations.

The other diners on the patio broke out in applause. And then, like a terrible nightmare, all the

attention rolled her way. She found herself in Anita’s tearful embrace. “I knew it the second I spoke to

you on the phone,” she whispered. “Mothers know these things.”

Additional chairs appeared. Champagne arrived. Chloe sat in a daze between Loretta and Anita

while the colonel made a toast. Glasses clinked. Everyone drank. The colonel asked if they’d set a

date. Michael fielded the question, and Chloe tried hard to focus on the conversation ping-ponging

over her as Anita and Loretta discussed venues, and flowers and registries. At some point she tuned

in enough to recognize they were planning a trip to some Bridal Expo at the Anaheim Convention

Center the following month and realized her presence was expected—no, scratch that—required. She

nodded with what she hoped was the appropriate excited, bride-to-be enthusiasm.

Just when it seemed like breakfast was never going to end, Michael said something about Chloe

having to work that afternoon—which, for a nice change of pace just happened to be true—and kicked

off another round of hugs, kisses, and congratulations. Minutes later she climbed in the passenger seat

of his Jeep, and dropped her pounding head back against the headrest. “Thanks to me, we’re now

lying to your boss and your parents. I sat there like some kind of emotional con woman, accepting all

their congratulations and good wishes under false pretenses. I’m going to burn in hell.”

He squeezed her knee. “I’ll admit, that was…horrifying. I flew missions over sniper-infested

Taliban territory less stressful than what we just experienced. But we got through it, and look on the

bright side.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him. “There’s a bright side? You honestly see a bright side?”

“Absolutely. My parents loved you.”

“You’re not funny. At least your mother didn’t stay angry.”

“Oh no, don’t let the smile and emotional maturity fool you. She’s pissed. I’m in the doghouse big

time.”

“I feel awful.”

“I know,” he said quietly and squeezed her knee again. “I wish I could hit rewind on the whole

morning. But there really is a bright side. Today was what you call a worst-case scenario. Nothing

that happens from here on out can possibly be as bad.”

Maybe he had a point, or maybe not. Because as horrifying as the morning had been, there was an

even more horrifying realization circling like a shark at the back of her conscience. A big part of her

wished the whole thing had been real.

…

Michael reluctantly obeyed the Monday afternoon summons to the colonel’s office. After the pressure

Harding had asserted Saturday at breakfast about setting a wedding date, he’d been hoping to fly

under the man’s radar for a few days. But fate or luck or whatever had taken a giant crap on him this

weekend obviously had other ideas.

An admin waved him back. Harding’s office door hung open, so he knocked on the doorframe and

cleared his throat.

The older man looked up and gestured to one of the two uncomfortable wooden guest chairs in front

of the continent-sized oak desk that fairly shouted AUTHORITY. “Have a seat, Major. I trust the rest

of your weekend went well?”

“Very nice, sir.”

Harding nodded and pinned him with a laser-sharp gaze. “Give any more thought to a wedding

date?”

He felt weaselly. Probably looked weaselly too, but he stared at his boots and answered, “We’re

discussing our options.”

“Good. Good.” Harding nodded briskly.

Fuck it. He couldn’t lie anymore. What had seemed like a harmless fib to make it feasible to help

Chloe without shooting his military career in the foot had devolved into a soap-opera-worthy web of

deception, all the more sticky because, although the engagement was fake, his feelings for her were

one hundred percent real.

“Sir, with regard to Chloe and me—”

The colonel waved a hand to cut him off. “I know, I know, you’ll figure out your wedding date in

your own time, but, meanwhile, you don’t need pressure from me or anyone else. Duly noted, Major. I

know it seems like I meddle into my officers’ personal lives; however, I speak from experience when

I say a military career imposes demands that can exact a huge physical and emotional toll. Over the

years I’ve found individuals who are part of a strong, supportive personal team are best positioned to

meet those demands, and I think you and Chloe, together, form a strong, supportive team.”

“I agree, sir, but…” He trailed off because in addition to coming clean about the engagement, he

found himself wanting to confide that Chloe didn’t see herself as “team” material, and he wasn’t sure

how to convince her she was selling herself short without scaring her right out the door.

“Relax, Major. I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know I

didn’t call this meeting to discuss your private life. The actual purpose of our meeting is to advise you

you’re back on flight status.”

It took him a moment to shift mental gears and follow the direction of the conversation. “I am?”

“Affirmative.” A faint smile tugged one corner of the colonel’s mouth, which told Michael the older

man knew damn well how anxious he’d been to get back in the cockpit. “Infantry is running twenty-

four hours of training exercises starting this evening, and requested Air Wing helicopter support. I’ll

put you on the roster, if you want to log some flight time.”

“Yes, sir.” He stood, and took a step toward the door before protocol stopped him. This was a

meeting with his commander, and he hadn’t been dismissed. “Thank you, sir.”

Harding laughed. “Dismissed, Major. Report to the airfield at eighteen hundred.”

Michael didn’t need to be told twice.

A couple hours later, still flying high on the prospect of being a pilot again, he pulled into his

parking space at Casa Clemente and headed upstairs to grab his gear and enjoy a little down time

before he had to report back to base.

Getting his clearance to fly lifted a dark cloud of uncertainly off him. Things that had seemed

impossibly fucked up this morning, namely, the situation with Chloe, looked amazingly

straightforward now. He still had over a week to convince her to stay—convince her to take a risk on

him…and herself. This was doable. He understood subtle, nuanced tactics, but when it came to

winning a battle, sometimes storming the defenses got the job done. From here on out, he was going to

storm her defenses like the freaking beaches at Normandy, and he’d stay the course until she fell to

him.

With his strategy firmly in place, he walked into the apartment. Chloe stood at the small table in the

dining area, sorting through the mail. She wore a long, body-hugging black tank top over the white

skirt he remembered from the infamous day at the massage clinic, and, hot damn, the lucky shoes. She

looked up when he came in and gave him a smile, but as he closed in on her, the smile disappeared

and her eyes grew wide.

Her lips parted, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak. He slammed his mouth down on hers. She

staggered back a little under the force of this kiss, so he simply hauled her up, hitched her legs around

his waist, and kept on walking until he’d backed her up against the wall.

She broke away long enough to mumble, “Careful.”

He used the opportunity to shove the tank top over her head. “Uh-uh. I’m done being careful. I’ve

got an hour before I have to report back to the base tonight and I don’t plan to spend it being careful.”

“But—”

Covering her mouth again cured her of the desire to speak. Instead, she melted into the kiss. He

shoved her bra out of his way and filled his hand with her warm, soft breast.

Her head dropped back against the wall, and she very nearly purred.

“I’m back on flight status,” he murmured against her throat.

That piece of news snapped her head up. She put her hands on his cheeks and pulled his face up as

well until their eyes met. Hers were blinking back tears. “Oh…Michael. I’m so happy.”

“I’m about to make you even happier, because as far as I’m concerned, if I’m deemed fit to handle a

CH-47, I’m fit to brace you against this wall, bury myself as deep inside you as humanly possible, and

give you the kind of ride that leaves you sweaty and breathless and trembling from head to toe. Then

I’m going to turn you around and fuck you from the other direction, just to prove to you beyond a

shadow of a doubt I can make you come whenever I want, however I want. What do you say, Chloe?

Would that make you happy?”

Her mouth was slack, her eyes unfocused, and she was grinding her hips against his with the quick,

determined rhythm she always used when left to her own devices. “No cheating,” he admonished and

reached up under her skirt to give her a playful swat on the ass. Then, because he was right there, he

swept his fingers under her thong, gratified to find her hot and damp. He took that as a green light and

ripped the thing off. “Seems like you’re happy.”

She gasped and buried her face in his neck. “Beyond happy. As long as Uncle Sam says you’re fit, I

consider this my patriotic duty.”

“Great. Do your patriotic duty and unzip me.” He got both hands under her hips and held her up

while she did the honors—unzipped his pants, reached inside, wrapped her exquisite fingers around

his shaft, and pulled him out. They both looked down and watched her stroke him until he swelled to

what felt damn close to the bursting point. She used the pad of her thumb to wipe a drop of moisture

from the head of his cock and then looked up at him. “Condom?”

“In my wallet. Back pocket, right side. My right,” he added when she reached for the wrong pocket.

“Got it.” A second later she fished out the condom, tossed his wallet over his shoulder, and slowly

rolled the protection on while he mentally recited the Oath of Enlistment to keep from bringing things

to a premature conclusion. As soon as she had him sheathed, he got a good grip on her ass, sealed his

mouth over one straining nipple, and drove into her, hard and fast, so all she could do was tighten her

legs around his waist and clutch his shoulders while he bounced her back and forth between his body

and the wall. Hopefully the Fenwicks in 2D weren’t sitting in their dining room, watching their wall

vibrate and screaming, “Earthquake!”

Not that he was averse to some screaming, but he wanted to hear it from a source a little closer to

home. And while he took an obscene amount of satisfaction from every ecstatic little cry coming from

Chloe’s throat, he aimed to get something more concrete out of her.

He released her nipple and growled, “Do you want to come?”

“Yes. Please. I’m so close.” Her eyes were closed, her jaw set.

“Who got you there? Who always gets you there?”

“You. You do it. Every time.”

“Who? Look at me and say my name.” He pinned her hips to the wall and thrust hard, deep enough

to hit her clit with the base of his cock.

Her eyes flew open. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“Guess again.”

“Michael,” she panted. “Please.”

“Who?” He repeated the move.

She shattered in his arms, screaming, “Michael…Michael…Michael.”

Before her inner muscles could wring an orgasm from him, he pulled out, spun her around, and put

her forearms flush to the wall. Hallelujah for the lucky shoes, because they made her the right height

for everything to line up perfectly. He hiked her skirt up and prepared to push into her from behind

when the phone rang.

Chapter Nineteen

Holy crap, you just came so hard your ears are ringing . The annoying noise reverberated in her

head. Chloe groaned and opened her eyes. The weight of Michael’s body held her against the wall,

which accounted for her not sinking to the floor in a boneless puddle.

“Are you okay?” His low, slightly tortured voice came from just behind her ear.

The distracting ringing noise stopped and then started again. “I don’t know. I hear ringing in my

ears.”

“As much as I’d like to take credit for ringing your bell, that’s the phone.”

“Oh.” A smile hijacked her lips and she pushed her hips back encouragingly. “In that case, yes, I’m

okay. Better than okay.” She was about to add, “Carry on, fly-boy,” when the message machine kicked

on, and after the beep, Lynne’s voice intruded into the otherwise quiet room. Hey, Chloe. I need to

speak with you right away. Pick up if you’re there…

Talk about timing. There she stood—barely—with her bra shoved up above her breasts, her skirt in

a bunch around her waist, and Michael poised to deliver on part two of his promise. “Shit. I’m sorry,

but I’d better get that.”

His hands tightened around her waist, and for one heady moment, she thought he might simply

growl, “Call her back,” and continue having his merry way with her. But instead he kissed her

shoulder and then smoothed her skirt down. She turned with an apologetic smile ready, but he’d

already stepped away and headed down the hall. Pulling her bra back into place, she crossed to the

phone on unsteady legs.

Okay, I guess you’re not there…

She lunged for the receiver and hit talk. “I’m here.” Her voice sounded a little breathless, but she

was prepared to blame it on rushing to answer the phone.

“Thank God. Hey, I just got a call from the spa in New Mexico. The woman you’re filling in for

went into labor this afternoon—”

“Oh no. Is she all right? The baby?”

“All is well. She’s just a couple weeks early. But this means the assignment starts ASAP.”

“Oh.” Of course. Of course that’s what it meant. That her heart wanted to bleed out of her chest at

the thought of leaving Michael was neither here nor there.

“Yeah, Oh. You sound like I just told you your dog died. You don’t have to take this job. I can get

another therapist—”

“No!” The word burst from her mouth like a bullet. She took a stabilizing breath and continued

more calmly. “No. I want the assignment.”

Lynne exhaled. “You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, did you know that?”

“I’m honored.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Staying would be the mistake. Handing my heart to a military man? Look how well that worked out

for my mom and dad.”

“Are you your mom?” Lynne shot back, more than a little exasperated. “Do you need attention every

second of the day, and would you run around behind your man’s back to get it?”

“No, I don’t have my mom’s abandonment issues, because I’ve worked hard to get over them. I’ve

made it a goal in life not to be the same endless well of need for attention. And, no, I would never

cheat on anyone.”

“Let’s stick a pin in those goals of yours for the moment. Is Michael anything like your dad?”

“He’s in the military. As far as I can tell, he plans to stay in.”

“The occupation is a superficial similarity. Is he cold and remote? Does he withhold affection and

put his ambitions ahead of everything else?”

“No, he’s none of those things. He’s funny and charming and he put his ambitions at risk to help me

out.”

“Okay, then. In our little game here, I’m going to claim this point. You’re not your mom. Michael’s

not your dad, and, by the way, your parents’ shitty marriage had nothing to do with the military. The

marriage failed because she craved constant adoration, while he used attention as a bargaining chip

and put his own needs first. He could have been an accountant or a teacher and the marriage still

would have sucked. Don’t use Michael’s uniform as an excuse to run away.”

“Why does everyone keep saying I’m running?” She couldn’t keep the frustration out of her voice.

“I travel. It’s my job. After all the mistakes I’ve made trying to find stability where none existed, why

is it so hard to believe being a rolling stone suits me better?”

“It suited you for a while, because you needed to spend some time alone and gain your self-

confidence back after your divorce, but now it’s just a crutch—something you use to justify avoiding

attachments. But whether you wanted to be or not, you’re attached to Michael. Stick around and see

where it leads.”

“I did that with Drew, and it didn’t lead anywhere remotely resembling happy ever after. I’m not

ready to attempt the journey again.”

“What I’m hearing now is just leftover fear and insecurity. Bury the past, get on with your life, and

enjoy where you’re at right now.”

Chloe felt her own exasperation growing. “It’s easy to say ‘Get on with your life,’ but, you know

what? It’s surprisingly hard to do. I’ve spent the better part of a year trying to move on, get myself

back on track, and I’m still a walking disaster.”

“You’re not a disaster—”

“I got fired, got so drunk I couldn’t stand up and, oh yeah, got fake engaged to my neighbor so I

could avoid ending up at a homeless hotel. What part of all this says to you, Hey, that Chloe has her

shit together?”

“Everybody screws up now and then. Everybody. You can’t judge yourself by the last few days.

Look at the bigger picture and tell me what you see.”

“There is no bigger picture.”

“Fine. You win. If walking disaster is all you see when you look at yourself, you’re right. You’re

not ready for Michael or anybody else.”

Chloe winced at the blunt reply, but Lynne wasn’t a mom of two boys for nothing. She could dish

out the tough love when she needed to.

Michael wandered back into the room, stopping a few feet away from her to pick up his wallet from

the spot where she’d tossed it earlier. She absorbed him with her eyes and felt her face heat when he

caught her looking and raised his eyebrows.

“So, ASAP means?” she asked Lynne.

“I figured you’d need twenty-four hours, so as not to leave Veronica in the lurch, plus you have to

pack and say your good-byes, so I had travel book you a flight tomorrow evening at 6:00 p.m., out of

John Wayne.”

Tomorrow! She gripped the phone to keep her hands from shaking. Across the room, Michael stood

utterly still, watching her. She drew in a deep breath, then another, before she felt calm enough to

attempt a reply. “I-I can make that work.”

“Fab,” Lynne said curtly. “We’re putting you up at an extended-stay hotel near the resort. I’m

emailing you the details as we speak. Will you be able to log-on somewhere and get them?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“You know what, Chloe? Don’t thank me. Thank your lousy parents, and your no-good ex, because

they’re the reason you’re going to New Mexico. They’re the reason you’re running away from a

chance at a real, honest-to-God, happy ever after. You’ve got some dark periods in your past, but

you’re letting them ruin your future too. You’re giving them more power than they deserve.”

“I can’t get into this with you right now.” She could barely talk around the tightness in her throat.

Barely concentrate on anything beyond the fact that her time with Michael was winding down. By this

time tomorrow she’d be on a plane to New Mexico.

Lynne muttered something that sounded like, “Maybe he can talk some sense into you,” and hung up.

Chloe returned the phone to its stand. With a knot twisting in her stomach, she turned to face

Michael.

“New Mexico?” he asked from across the room. He didn’t back away or come closer.

She nodded and forced a laugh. “Your prayers have been answered. You’re going to get your

apartment, and your life, back. No more Chloe and her clutter everywhere.”

He didn’t so much as crack a smile. “When?”

“Tomorrow evening. My flight leaves at seven.”

“And you want to go?”

“That was always the plan.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

No, he’d asked what she wanted, but the question had no easy answer. “I love…so many things

about being here,” she eyed him meaningfully, because that was as close as she could come to saying

the words, “but this isn’t my place. This isn’t my life. It never was.”

“It could be.” Impossibly, his dark gaze turned even more intense. “If that’s what you want.”

“I want—” Her vision blurred as hot tears burned her eyes and she suddenly feared how that

sentence was going to end. Desperate to cut herself off, she crossed the room and fused her mouth to

his.

His hands found her waist and for a few precious moments he held her close and kissed her back,

but then he raised his head and looked down at her. “Chloe, we need to talk.”

No. No talking. Conversation would change nothing—only waste what little time they had left. She

framed his face with her hands and brushed her lips against his. “Later. You asked me what I want. I

want you. I want to finish what we started when you walked in tonight.” She kissed him again, going

deep and hard to try and commit his taste to memory, all the while pulling him toward the bedroom.

Relief mixed with desire when he didn’t resist.

In the bedroom, she broke the kiss long enough to take her bra off. Then she pressed her face against

his neck and breathed deeply.

His hands wrapped around her upper arms. “This isn’t fair Chloe. I want you, too, but there are

things I need to say—”

She couldn’t let the conversation happen. There was no way she’d survive it. “Say them

tomorrow,” she murmured, knowing full well there wouldn’t be a tomorrow for them, because

tomorrow wouldn’t change things one bit. No matter how deeply she wished otherwise, she’d still

have her hard-and-fast rules, and he still broke every one of them. She pushed his shirt out of her way

and then ran her palms over his shoulders, down his spine, granting herself one last massage of his

now strong, healthy back, and reveling in the restrained power beneath smooth skin.

“Wait for me to get home.” He trailed his mouth down her neck, to the hollow at the base of her

throat.

Her heart twisted painfully tight. There was no way she could wait, and no way to explain why

without hurting him. She didn’t want to offer him false words. Instead she twined her arms around his

neck and let her head drop back while his lips and tongue exploited the vulnerable spot.

“Promise me,” he pressed.

Damn him. He knew she tried hard to keep her promises, and he kept nudging her into an

impossible corner. She grabbed his head and pulled his mouth back to hers. Everything she couldn’t

let herself say went into the kiss. Maybe he took that as a yes because he drove his fist into her hair

and held on while she dropped her hands to his waist and undid his pants.

His hands got busy, too, and within seconds, they were both naked. She drank in the sight of him, all

height and breadth and rigidly controlled muscles. He took a condom from the nightstand, rolled it on,

and then reached for her, but she shook her head. She wanted him under her, so she could watch him

and memorize every moment of their last time together.

She put a hand to his chest and gently pushed. He got the message and sat down on the bed, then

groaned when she straddled him. Their groans overlapped as she rocked her hips forward, sliding

along the ridge of his erection and creating bone-dissolving friction.

After the mind-blowing climax he’d already given her, she wasn’t counting on coming again, but

now her body went on some kind of orgasmic autopilot. A sob broke from her throat as the lock she

had on her emotions threatened to fail.

Michael, God bless him, misinterpreted the reason for her distress. “Shh. I’ve got you. I won’t stop

until I finish you.” With an arm banded around her waist and his hand clamped to her backside, he

worked her up and down his shaft. All she could do was hold onto him and bite her lip to keep from

crying out, because she couldn’t trust herself to speak. Too many conflicting needs churned much too

close to the surface.

The hand at her waist moved up to the back of her head, and he slowly brought her mouth to his. He

used his teeth to free her lip and then kissed her until the only thing she could taste was him. The only

thing she could smell was the scent of his skin. The only thing she could feel was his body—under

her, against her, moving inside her. She closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the sensations, because

although she hadn’t yet walked out his door she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt there would never,

ever be another man in her life like Michael McCade.

“Wait for me,” he whispered against her kiss-swollen lips, so gently she wanted to burst into tears.

“I—oh God. I’m trying.”

He rejected her attempt at distraction. “Tomorrow. Promise you’ll wait.”

She was on the verge of promising him anything he wanted, and that scared her enough to scramble

for control. Planting her knees wide, she rocked up, forfeiting everything except the wide, smooth

head of his penis, and closed the distance he’d created. His groan of protest reached her ears seconds

before she devoured his mouth. Her fingers traced his brow, his cheekbone, the line of his jaw. She

tightened her inner muscles, clasping him in quick, rhythmic hugs designed to drive all thoughts of

tomorrow out of his mind and focus him solely on the here and now.

A long, low, tortured sound rumbled from his chest, and then she was flat on her back, legs

wrapped high around his waist, rising up to meet him. Dark eyes stared at her, into her.

“Promise…” he tried again, but it was too late. The force of his orgasm locked his jaw and jerked

his head back. He succumbed with a long, shuddering groan. The wave of pleasure rolled through him

and crashed into her. Tears she could do nothing about leaked from the corners of her eyes. She

closed them and turned her face to the pillow, praying he didn’t notice. Seconds later he put his hand

between her legs and held her while he carefully withdrew. Without him inside her, a cold, emptiness

set in—all the way to her soul. She shifted onto her side and concentrated on holding her body

together, because every molecule threatened to explode from the pressure of keeping her emotions in

check.

He kissed the back of her neck, the curve of her hip, and then the mattress squeaked as he rose. A

chill swept down her back and she shivered—an involuntarily protest against the loss of his body

heat.

She feigned sleep while he showered and kept her eyes closed as he moved about the bedroom,

dressing and gathering his gear. Sound alone allowed her to track his progress—the jangle of his dog

tags, the rustle of his uniform, the carpet-muted sound of boot steps. Then the bed sank as he sat down

next to her and smoothed her hair away from her face.

“Chloe.”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.”

She forced her eyelids open and tried to ignore the lurch of her heart as their eyes met. Everything

she felt right now only emphasized how much work she still needed to do on herself and how

important it was for her to go. Twelve months of effortlessly flitting from place to place had lulled

her into a false sense of security about her emotional independence. In truth, none of the other places,

and none of the other people, had tested her resolve the way this man did. And she’d failed the test,

spectacularly.

“Wait for me. We’ll talk—on the way to the airport if necessary,” he added when she started to

interrupt. “After I’ve said everything I have to say, if you’re still determined to leave, I’ll make sure

you catch your flight.”

“Michael—”

He kissed her once, hard, as if the move could cut off any argument, and then stepped away. “Wait

for me. I mean it.”

And then he was gone.

…

Steering a five thousand horsepower helicopter through a half-dozen flawless Pinnacle maneuvers

normally boosted Michael’s mood like nothing else on Earth. The training exercises had gone like

clockwork. They should have left him happily exhausted and ready to sleep for the next twelve hours.

But not today.

He drove off base so keyed up he could barely sit still. His fingers tapped an impatient cadence on

the steering wheel and his right foot itched to press the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

All day while he’d been trying to focus on the tasks at hand—small matters like keeping a few tons

of metal and rotating blades in the air—visions of Chloe kept invading his mind. He pictured her

packing her belongings into her huge duffel bags, methodically removing every last trace of herself

from the space. When that wasn’t torturous enough, his overactive imagination took things a step

further. He envisioned her wheeling her big, pink bags out his door, down the steps one awkward

bounce at a time, and into the trunk of a waiting cab. In his mind’s eye, he watched her climb into the

back seat of the cab, shut the door, and roll right out of his life. Except it didn’t feel like a figment of

his imagination. It felt like a premonition.

The drive to San Clemente unfurled in slow motion, glacially slow despite, or because of, his

escalating certainty that if he didn’t get home now, he’d be too late. Finally he swerved into his spot

at Casa Clemente, cringing as he stomped on the brakes to avoid slamming his front end into the wall.

Seconds later he scrambled out of the Jeep and ran up the stairs.

He was still running when he hit the door, and cursed when he found it locked. Not Chloe’s MO. If

she was home, she left the door unlocked.

A fatalistic calm seeped into him. He unlocked the door and swung it open. “Chloe?”

Silence greeted him. His eyes swept the kitchen and dining area. No sign of her. The living area

looked as clear and pristine as the day he’d moved in, and completely uninhabitable without the

colorful assortment of jewelry, pillows, candles, and cosmetics he’d come to expect.

He continued down the hall. The bathroom counter gleamed. The guest room looked like an Ikea ad

rather than a Barbie baggage claim.

In the master bedroom, a folded, white, piece of paper sat on his nightstand, with a small, shiny

object on top. The ring. He pocketed it with barely a glance, because he couldn’t pull his attention

from the note. He flipped it open.

Michael,

I didn’t wait. I’m sorry. My flight leaves at six, not seven. I fibbed because…well…for all my

bouncing around, I’m lousy at good-byes.

Shit. She was gone. Subconsciously, he’d known she would be, but seeing the words in writing

drove it home. The realization struck him like a knuckle blow to the gut. He sagged back against the

wall. Then his legs said what the fuck, and he slid down to the floor. He ran a hand over his gritty

eyes, blinked, and refocused on the letter.

Thank you seems so insufficient, but thank you, for…everything. I wish we’d met under

different circumstances, when I wasn’t hauling around quite so much baggage (literally!), and

in constant need of rescue. You’re unbelievably good at it, but I’m really sorry rescuing me

meant you had to lie.

If you ever find yourself in need of rescue, I hope you’ll reach out. Lynne at Helping Hands

always knows how to get a hold of me.

Take care of yourself.

Love,

Chloe

P.S.- You were the best fiancé I ever had.

Fuck. He crumpled the letter and let it drop. It rolled under the bed, bounced off something, and

rolled back out to rest by the toe of his boot. Curiosity got the better of him. He lowered his head to

the floor and peered under the bed. One of her high heels lay on its side. He pulled it out. One of her

lucky shoes.

A simple oversight or a sign from fate? Turned out he really didn’t care. If the lucky shoe worked

on traffic, he could make it to John Wayne in thirty minutes. He could catch her.

He ran out the door like a crazy man, with a shoe in one hand, his keys in the other and a diamond

ring in his pocket.

Ten minutes later he had his answer regarding the whether the lucky shoe worked on traffic. It did

not. He crept along in stop-and-go traffic all the way up I-5, transitioned to the 405 North, otherwise

known as a parking lot, and burned through another half hour before reaching the airport exit. At last

he made the turn from MacArthur Blvd. into the airport, and hit the gas, trying to make up time as he

followed the Departing Flights signs.

An old guy in a pickup truck pulled in from another access ramp, cut him off, and the proceeded to

go so slow he made the fourteen mile-per-hour on-base maximum speed limit look like the autobahn.

It took every ounce of self-restraint Michael possessed not to lay on the horn and drive up the old-

timer’s tailpipe. Instead, he pulled to the curb at the start of the “loading and unloading only” section,

cut the engine, and hurtled out of the Jeep, carrying Chloe’s black shoe and running balls-out into the

terminal like some sweaty, wild-eyed Prince Charming.

Quarter to six. He stared at the Departing Flights monitor, realizing he had no idea which carrier

she was on or which terminal her flight departed from. The monitor informed him he had a sprint from

Terminal A to Terminal C ahead of him, and her flight was now boarding.

He ran.

At Terminal C, he stopped at ticketing and bought a seat on her flight. That cost him another five

minutes. Clearing security took another five minutes, and that was with being fast-tracked because he

showed up in his fatigues, flashed military ID to the TSA agents, and threw himself on their mercy.

He raced to the gate and arrived just in time to watch the Boeing 737 taxi toward the runway.

His furiously beating heart sank into his boots. Apparently the lucky shoes only worked as a pair.

Naturally, now that time had no meaning, he made it back to San Clemente in twenty-five minutes

flat and drove straight to the Stars & Bars with the intention of getting so drunk he’d be unable to

recite name, rank, or serial number by last call.

He was at a barstool, working on his first two fingers of whiskey, when someone clapped him on

the back and a sharp, disapproving voice said, “Major.”

Shit. Harding. The man was everywhere. Michael straightened, painfully aware he was sitting in a

bar, drinking while in uniform. Definitely not the kind of move that impressed the brass. “Colonel.”

The older man took the empty barstool beside Michael. The bar wasn’t particularly crowded at this

hour, but all the barstools around him were empty because he looked and smelled like someone who

hadn’t showered or shaved in twenty-four hours. If that wasn’t enough to keep most people away, his

gritty, bloodshot eyes and tense jaw told the world, Back off. I’m nowhere near my happy place.

But not the colonel.

“Major, I’m not going to put any lipstick on this. You look like shit—like someone who’s going to

disgrace the uniform you’re wearing before the night is over. In less than ten minutes, the base

commander is going to walk through this door and join me for a drink. Him seeing you here, as you

are, will be a career-limiting event. Go home. Whatever’s eating at you, share it with Chloe. You’ll

feel a hell of a lot better talking things out with her than drowning your sorrows here.”

Michael pulled his hand out of his pocket and held up his index finger, where the engagement ring

glinted from the first knuckle. “Chloe’s not at home.”

“I see.” Harding’s voice lost some of the rebar running through it. “You two had a falling out. That

explains a few things.” The colonel motioned to the bartender and ordered a beer and then turned

back to Michael.

“Take it from a man who’s been married to the same woman for twenty-five years, these things

happen from time to time, especially early on. The real test is, what do you plan to do about it?”

“Colonel, I just raced to the airport with a ring in my pocket and a fucking shoe in my hand, and I

missed her by less than five minutes. You’re now looking at my plan, though I appreciate the heads-

up, and I’ll change the venue.” He stood and threw some bills on the bar.

“You disappoint me, Major. I hadn’t pegged you as a man who gave up so easily.”

Michael expelled a breath and stared down at his boots. Time to come clean. “Sir, Chloe and I got

engaged for the wrong reasons. Our relationship was never—”

“The circumstances under which you got engaged are not material now. What’s material are your

current feelings. Obviously, you let her walk away without saying the things you ought to have said—

and I know this because you chased her to the airport with a ring in one hand and a fucking shoe in the

other. Those aren’t the actions of a man who’s said his piece.”

“Colonel, I—”

“You have important things to say to the woman. Confirm or deny?”

He sighed and sat back on the barstool. “Confirmed, sir.”

The colonel nodded. “All right, Major. Listen up. I have orders for you.”

“Listening, sir.”

“Go home, get cleaned up, and then get your sorry ass to wherever Chloe went, and say your piece.

You’ve got forty-eight hours. Understood?”

“Yes, sir…and thank you.”

Harding waived the thanks away. “Dismissed.”

Michael started for the door, but after a couple steps, the colonel called out to him.

“Major?”

He turned. “Yes, sir?”

“Chloe’s a keeper. Make sure she knows. Don’t just mouth the words to her. Marines are men of

action. Show her.”

“Right, sir.”

“And don’t fuck up.”

Chapter Twenty

Chloe, you fucked up. The thought settled on her as she pulled her rental car into a parking space as

the Santa Fe Extended Stay Suites and stared off at the purple-streaked horizon. Sure, outwardly, her

life looked back on track. Her new temporary home boasted an open layout, a comfy bed, and a

convenient commute to work, and her first day on the job had gone well. The high-end resort spa with

its wealthy clientele promised the kind of tips that would plump her emaciated bank account back up

in record time. Not a bad way to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. She should have been happy.

Instead, she was miserable, she admitted as she walked through the lobby to the elevator. She

missed San Clemente. She missed chatting with Mrs. Waverly and working at Veronica’s Oasis.

Mostly though, she missed Michael.

The elevator opened. She stepped inside, pushed the button for her floor, and leaned back for the

solo ride up three flights. 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.

Michael’s words floated through her mind and shame burned up her chest and into her face. She’d

been a complete chickenshit. She’d clung to the pain in her past and used it as an excuse not to risk

her heart again. Not with friends or a job or anything resembling a commitment—certainly not with a

man. The chickenshit strategy had worked great. Until Michael.

All he’d asked her to do was wait for him and listen to what he had to say. But she’d run scared

under the guise of sticking to her goals, and now she regretted it. Deeply.

The elevator stopped at her floor. She exited, turned left, and started the long walk to her room at

the very end of the hall.

She needed to talk to him, see him. Explain. Hopefully he’d give her a chance, but indications

weren’t so good, because she’d called him half-a-dozen times today, all of which had gone straight to

voice mail, none of which had yielded a return call.

At the end of the hall, she noticed the door to the room directly opposite her hung open. Interesting.

When she’d arrived yesterday evening, the room had been empty. She knew this because the desk

clerk had given her the choice of the pool-facing suite or the mountain-facing suite. She’d chosen to

see the mountains. She hoped her new neighbor enjoyed a view of the pool, but leaving one’s door

ajar probably wasn’t a good idea. Should she shut it?

What if the occupant had stepped away to get ice or hunt down a housekeeping cart for fresh

towels? Her good intentions might leave someone locked out of their room. But if they were inside,

maybe they didn’t even realize the door wasn’t completely closed.

She hesitated, peeked inside, but saw nothing but a darkened room illuminated by groups of

candles. Oh Lord, what if someone had booked the unit for a rendezvous? Surely for their romantic

evening they’d want the privacy afforded by a closed door? She knocked and called out, “Hello?”

“Back here. I need help.”

Oh, my God. The voice. She pushed through the door at warp speed. The man sounded exactly

like…

“Michael!”

He lay in the bed, in nothing but a pair of white, knit boxers, with one wrist handcuffed to the bed

frame. Over his head hung a banner that read, “Happy Birthday, Scarlett.”

She put a hand over her mouth and took several deep breaths through her nose before she trusted

herself to speak. Even so, her voice came out as a whisper. “You crazy man. What are you doing?”

“Wishing you a happy birthday. What? Did I leave something out?” He made a show of taking

inventory. “I’ve got the candles. The sexy underwear. The handcuff. I even got this…” He rolled onto

his side and tugged his boxers down on over one hip. “Check it.”

Stunned beyond words, she approached the bed and sat next to him. “What am I checking?”

He grinned. “Under the bandage.”

Bandage? “Jesus, Michael…are you hurt?” Her hand shook as she carefully peeled back the

adhesive, and stared at…

“It’s a little hard to tell right now, because I only got the thing done last night, but it’s a tattoo…the

Chinese symbol for home.”

What had he done? He hated needles. “Home?” she repeated lamely.

“Right. Not a cage or a trap. A home, where a certain hummingbird can fly in and stay as long as

she pleases.”

Her heart raced. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she knew damn well despite the manufacturer’s

waterproof claims, half her mascara rolled down with them, but she really didn’t care. “What if she

wants to stay forever? What if she’s in love with you?”

His grin disappeared. “Then I think you should have this.” He lifted something from the nightstand

and placed it in her open palm. The handcuff key, dangling from a loop threaded through his

grandmother’s engagement ring. “Unlock me, and I’ll do this thing right this time.”

She wasn’t nearly as deft at popping the handcuffs as he’d been.

“Time is of the essence,” he teased after she tried for the second time to fit the key into the hole and

missed.

“Do you want to take over?” she shot back, mildly exasperated.

“Nope. It’s your turn to rescue me.”

“It hardly counts as a rescue if you could just as easily free yourself.”

“It’s symbolic. We’re working on a new Grandkid Story here.”

“All right then.” She stabbed the key in and smiled as the lock clicked open.

“Thanks.” He wiggled out of the cuff, took the key from her, and slipped the ring off the loop. Then

he lifted her left hand and stared deep into her eyes. “Okay, listen up, because this is the real deal this

time—for posterity and whatnot. Are you ready?”

She nodded and then quickly wiped her cheeks and under her eyes so posterity wouldn’t include her

tear-stained face.

“Chloe Kincaid, I love you. I fell for you the very first night we met, when I walked into your

apartment and discovered my gorgeous, possibly crazy new neighbor handcuffed to her own bed. I

love the way you sing off-key at the top of your lungs. I love that you think to arrange furniture for

optimal Chi flow. I love the way all your clutter turns a sterile, drab apartment into a home. Bottom

line, Chloe? You’re my home. Wherever you go, wherever I go, wherever we go, you’re my home. I

want to be your home, too—and keep in mind I endured an hour under a needle to give you symbolic

proof.” He slipped the ring onto her finger. “So, what do you say?”

She crawled over him until she straddled his lap. “You’re my home, too, Michael.”

“Does that mean yes?”

She picked up the handcuffs, slapped one bracket around his wrist, and secured the other around

hers. “What do you think?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I think our Grandkid Story is going to need some editing.”

“Yes,” she said, before he leaned in and kissed her, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she

was finally home.

Epilogue

Three months later…

Chloe dropped her duffel bag and garment bag on the bed with a sigh of relief, kicked off her shoes,

and then looked around the empty hotel suite. She’d figured her days of empty hotel rooms were over,

but this morning proved her wrong. She pressed a hand to her queasy stomach and took a deep,

calming breath.

This suite was particularly lovely, with its spacious rooms and double balconies boasting endless

ocean views…and it wouldn’t be empty for long. She glanced at her watch and gaped at the time. In

less than thirty minutes she’d be at the center of a whirlwind of activity.

The thought of all that activity got her pulse revving. She didn’t mind the rev, but this was the

beginning of a long, important day and she didn’t want to exhaust herself before it even started. Nor

did she want to throw up. A few minutes of open-air meditation might do the trick.

Inspired, she stepped out onto the balcony and breathed deeply. Closed her eyes. Let her mind go

blank.

“Hello Chloe.”

Shock nearly sent her hurtling over the railing. Two strong arms clamped around her waist and

pulled her back against the safety of a tall, strong, extremely familiar body. “Are you trying to bolt on

me, free bird? Because I have to warn you, you can’t really fly.”

“Michael!” She turned in his arms and thumped his chest with her palm. “What are you doing here?

Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”

He shrugged, completely unconcerned. “I’ve got good feng shui, baby. I don’t need luck. I also

didn’t need a room key because you left the door open.” His wandering hand found her butt and

pinched her.

She swatted his hand away. “I left it open on purpose, because your mom and Loretta are going to

be here soon.”

“Let them knock. I wanted to check in on you before things got too crazy. Make sure you weren’t

getting cold feet.”

“Me?” She wiggled her bare toes. “My feet are warm and comfy. Why are you worried?”

He rested his forehead against hers. “I know this isn’t the nice, simple exchange-vows-on-the-

beach-in-Jamaica deal we talked about. Once my mom got involved,” he lifted his head and rolled his

eyes, “and then with Loretta spurring things on and Lynne and Veronica, who I stupidly thought might

be the voice of reason…the whole thing kind of spiraled. I don’t want you to feel penned in by all

this, ’cause it’s not too late for us to grab our bags and fly off to Jamaica. I’ll leave a note telling

everyone to enjoy the reception.”

Her heart fluttered at the offer, but she shook her head. “The colonel would not be pleased.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty thrilled about walking you down the aisle, but he’s not my priority. You are.”

She was pretty thrilled to have him walking her down the aisle too, particularly since her father

couldn’t be bothered to request leave to attend the wedding. Much like her mom, he’d given her the

“Didn’t we do this once already?” comment and told her to send pictures. Oh well. To paraphrase

one of the smartest people she knew, her parents were not her priority. Michael was. She wrapped

her arms around his neck and smiled up at him. “As long as this day ends with my husband in my

arms, it’s exactly what I had in mind.”

“You sure? My family can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

“They’re wonderful, all of them. Your parents, Trevor, Kylie, Logan.” They were. Trevor and his

very lovely, very glowing, six-months-pregnant wife Kylie could not have been more welcoming,

which was good, because something told her she’d be speaking to Kylie pretty regularly soon. Logan,

his younger brother, she didn’t know as well, because he lived in Colorado and spent what seemed to

be every waking hour buried to his neck in the responsibilities of running his rapidly expanding

business. But he’d flown in for the weekend to attend the wedding and arrived at the rehearsal dinner

last night with a big, charming smile on his handsome, somewhat stressed-out face.

“Kylie’s wonderful. You don’t know the real Trevor, because she’s sanded down the worst of his

bossy, abrasive side. And Logan? Ha, don’t let the polished facade fool you. He—”

“Looks like he needs a good massage.”

Michael scowled at that and tightened his arms around her possessively. “Typical. Women always

want to get their hands on Logan. Let him find his own masseuse. You’re mine.”

She laughed and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss the frown line between his brows away. “I am yours.

Today, tomorrow, and always.”

He kissed her back, long and hard enough to have her head spinning when he drew away. “No cold

feet? No doubts? No feeling trapped?”

“None of the above. I can’t wait to put a ring on your finger.”

“I hope you’re wearing running shoes under your dress, because Harding’s so anxious to see this

wedding happen, I’m afraid he’s going to march you down the aisle at double time.”

“He’s worried he’s going to cry. Says he always cries at weddings.”

“He should worry. Half of 3rd MAW has laid bets he won’t make it to the altar without bawling.”

“That’s mean. I’ll just have to distract him so he doesn’t get choked up.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

She couldn’t keep the sappy smile off her face. For the hundredth time since the phone call she’d

received yesterday morning, she found two little words ready to fly out of her mouth. She’d been

trying to hold them back until after the wedding, but through fate or whatever, she and Michael had a

quiet moment right now, and, what was that saying? No time like the present. “I’ll tell Harding we

planned the wedding as quickly as we could, but it turns out we weren’t smart enough to avoid

complications.”

Michael stared at her for a long moment, his face completely blank. “Complications?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh. In about six months we’re going to add another chapter to our Grandkid

Story. One that might eventually result in actual grandkids.”

His expression remained unreadable, so she hurried on. “I know, timing-wise, this isn’t what we

planned, but, then again, nothing about us has ever gone according to anybody’s plans, so, in a way,

it’s kind of perfect…don’t you think?” Her heart pounded because, honestly, she couldn’t tell what he

was thinking.

“Six months. So…the night in New Mexico?”

She nodded again and wished she hadn’t told him like this. He seemed to have slipped into a state

of shock. “Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

Shoot. This wasn’t going well at all. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’m about to kiss the mother of my child until she can’t see straight.”

“Oh.” Relief loosened her body and she leaned into him. “In that case, Major, it’s time to put those

thoughts into action, because we’ve only got ten minutes.”

He pulled her close, so their lips hovered mere millimeters apart, and grinned. “Chloe, we’ve got

the rest of our lives.”

Acknowledgments

Big THANK-YOUs and free massages to:

Heather Howland and Sue Winegardner, for your superfast, yet always-on-point editing genius.

Lucky for me, you seem to like it fast and rough! (My writing, I mean).

Fellow Entangled authors Robin Bielman and Hayson Manning, for the tea and sympathy, (okay,

maybe it’s more like vodka and kicks in the pants, but still).

All the great readers and authors who gave me input on this story, like Katee Robert, my girl

Hayson, Alison Bliss, Donna Broers, Timitra Cozier-Bobb, Lauren Blakely, and the lovely Maggie

Kelley.

The Kentucky crew, once again, for all your awesomeness, and the California crew for incredible

support.

My family.

All the brave people who have served, and are currently serving, in our armed forces… Thank you.

About the Author

Award winning author Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California, with her husband, their son, Kitty

the furry Ninja, and Bebe the trash talkin’ Chihuahua. When not writing fun and sexy contemporary

romance, or napping on her beach towel with her face snuggled to her Kindle, she searches for the

perfect ten dollar wine to pair with Lunchables.

Connect with Sam via

Facebook

,

Twitter

, or through her website at

www.samanthebeck.com

to

check her progress on that never-ending quest, or to get the latest on her upcoming Brazens!

Can’t get enough of Samanthe Beck’s romances? Check out her debut novel!

Private Practice

He’ll teach her how to bring a man to his knees…

Dr. Ellie Swan has a plan: open her practice in tiny Bluelick, Kentucky, so she can keep an eye on her

diabetic father, and make hometown golden-boy Roger Reynolds fall in love with her. But Ellie has a

problem. Roger seeks a skilled, sexually adventurous partner, and bookish Ellie doesn’t qualify.

Tyler Longfoot only cares about three things: shaking his bad boy image, qualifying for the loan his

company needs to rehab a piece of Bluelick’s history, and convincing Ellie to keep quiet about the

“incident” that lands him on her doorstep at two a.m. with a bullet in his behind.

The adorable Dr. Swan drives a mean bargain, though. If sex-on-a-stick Tyler will teach Ellie how

to bring a man to his knees, she’ll forget about the bullet. Armed with The Wild Woman’s Guide to

Sex and Tyler’s lessons, Ellie is confident she can become what Roger needs…if she doesn’t fall for

Tyler first.

Amazon

|

B&N

|

Kobo

|

iTunes

Samanthe kicks off her new McCade Brothers series with the enticing and entertaining

Lover Undercover

He’s undercover. She’s in over her head.

Yoga instructor Kylie Roberts is the good twin. Or she was—until an accident prevents her sister

from dancing at a posh Hollywood “men’s club,” and Kylie has to step into her twin’s sexy stilettos to

make rent. But nothing could’ve prepared Kylie for the dead body in the club’s parking lot, a killer

who only targets her clients, or the ridiculously hot detective assigned to the case. Too bad he thinks

she’s her sister, because Kylie’s willing to volunteer for an intimate, full-body strip search.

Detective Trevor McCade needs Kylie’s help. His plan is to pose as a regular customer and draw

out the killer. It means long nights undercover, and long dances where Kylie’s body tempts him with

sensual promises. Dances that leave them both wanting more. But despite Kylie’s hidden identity and

the danger lurking in the shadows, it’s only a matter of time before Kylie and Trevor take this

undercover operation under the covers…

Amazon

|

B&N

|

Kobo

|

iTunes

The McCade Brothers series continues in…

Lovers Unmasked

a Halloween anthology featuring four of Brazen’s bestselling authors!

Mystery and intrigue surround Halloween night as friends surrender to long-hidden desires, lovers

relinquish control, and the heat of passion threatens to consume them all…

Danielle has a plan—use the company Halloween party to seduce the sexy mail guy who works a

few floors up who she’s been meeting for coffee for the past few months. The only problem? He’s not

who she thinks he is, and he has seduction plans of his own.

Kindergarten teachers aren’t known for breaking the rules, but Steph is ready to go undercover—

and get under the covers—to work her magic on her best friend, Landon. Sexy costume necessary,

multiple orgasms crucial, real identity optional.

When Stacy discovers her sex-on-a-stick ex at her Hollywood Halloween blow-out, she decides to

show the cocky homicide detective exactly what he’s been missing. But she’s not the only one plotting

revenge, and Ian’s the only one who can save her.

Lieutenant Derek Tyler and Ginger Peet have overcome every seemingly impossible hurdle on the

path to happiness, but when they each receive life-changing news on the same day, will their hard-

won trust stand up to the test? Or will their attempts to shield one another drive them apart?

Enjoy your tricks and treats in this sexy anthology featuring bestselling authors Katee Robert, Cari

Quinn, Samanthe Beck, and Tessa Bailey.

Amazon

|

B&N

|

Kobo

|

iTunes

Also releasing this month...

Wilde for Her

the second book in the Wilde Security series by romantic suspense author Tonya Burrows

Friends with benefits just got hotter.

Former homicide detective Camden Wilde has been in love with his ex-partner, Eva Cardoso, for

longer than he cares to admit. Not that it matters. She’s shoved him into the friend zone, and after

living through the hell of his parents’ violent deaths, Cam’s unable to give her the idyllic life she

secretly desires.

Eva’s never met a person who hasn’t let her down. Cam may be sex personified, but he’s the only

man she can trust, and there’s no way she’ll risk their friendship on the off-chance they could be more.

Especially not after the one scintillating night she’s trying—and failing—to forget.

When a murder-for-hire contract on his head lands Eva on his doorstep, Cam knows it’s time to put

up or shut up. He’s done biding his time, and he’ll be damned if he lets the delectable detective ignore

what’s between them, no matter the cost.

Amazon

|

B&N

|

iTunes

Also releasing this month...

Game for Trouble

the next book in the Game for It series by USA TODAY bestselling author Karen Erickson

He’ll play dirty to get what he wants...

Willow Cavanaugh would be happy if she never saw cocky football star Nick Hamilton again. Sure,

their fling was the hottest she’d had, but he’s way too much of a playboy to settle down with one

woman. Plus, she’s got her heart set on a piece of real estate for her catering business—and Nick

owns that property.

Nick may be at the top of his game, but all he wants is a second chance with Willow. When he

offers to sell her his commercial space if she agrees to a series of dates with him, their chemistry is

so scintillating that jumping back into bed seems like an inevitability. But Willow’s decided all’s fair

in sex and blackmail. Little does she know, Nick’s playing to win…and she’s the prize.

Amazon

|

B&N

|

iTunes

Also releasing this month...

Down the Aisle

a Dare Me series novella by Christine Bell

She thought their future together would be easy…

Lacey Garrity is about to have the wedding she’s always dreamed of. She and Galen had planned on a

big family, but now fertility issues are turning that dream to ashes. When another setback comes to

light a week before their wedding day, she wonders how she can marry him knowing that being with

her might mean he can never have the life he imagined…

Galen Thomas loves his woman, and whether they have a big family or it’s just the two of them

forever, he can’t wait to spend his life with her. With the big day coming, he’ll pull out all the stops to

remind her how good it can be between them and that, together, they can do anything…if he can just

get her down the aisle.

Amazon

|

B&N

|

iTunes

Also releasing this month…

Seducing Her Rival

the Brazen debut from multipublished author Seleste deLaney

She’s trapped with a man she hates…and can’t resist.

When cruise ship turbulence sends children’s charity guru Mercedes Vega—and her tropical cocktail

—flying into a mysterious stranger, she’s convinced her free vacation is a dream-come-true. But

Lucas Bellamy isn’t just sexy as sin and richer than God. He’s her business rival, determined to

outbid her charity for the land she desperately needs…a fact she doesn’t learn until after a night of

mind-blowing, toe-curling sex. Unwilling to give up, she formulates a plan to make the charming

playboy fall in love with her and back out of the property deal.

Lucas is drawn to Mercedes, but he won’t stand down—after all, he has promises of his own to

keep. But one scintillating night with the enigmatic brunette leads to another, and before long, it’s

unclear who’s seducing who, leaving Mercedes wondering whether the man she’s supposed to hate is

the only salvation from her past.

Amazon

|

B&N

|

iTunes

Also releasing this month…

Crash into Me

the first book in the new Shaken Dirty series by bestselling author Tracy Wolff

She’s totally off-limits, but this rocker wants a taste…

Jamison Matthews has lusted after Ryder Montgomery since she was a preteen. But now that Ryder

and her brother’s band, Shaken Dirty, has made it huge, she’s just one of many pining for the brooding

lead singer. Too bad Ryder still sees her as a little sister. Not that it matters. Her brother would never

allow it, and the last thing Jamison wants is to be another notch on a rock star’s bed post. Even if it’s

Ryder’s.

Ryder doesn’t deserve happiness. After his fame destroyed his last girlfriend, he swore he’d never

fall in love again. So when Jamison, the girl he’s been in danger of loving for years, joins the band on

the road, he’ll do anything to deny the sparks between them—even after one hot night together. But

Jamison is determined to show Ryder that he’s worthy of love— her love—and that she’s all grown

up…and ready to play.

Amazon

|

B&N

|

Kobo

|

iTunes