Bound By Temptation (8 page)

Weeks of abject humiliation, of questioning my instincts, because I’d been so wrong about him…

“Protecting me!” She jolted up from the toilet seat, so furious the stabbing pain in her knees barely registered. “By taking away my choices?” She stalked forward, her knuckles rounding, the fury steaming through her hotter than the bathwater and obliterating her stiffness and pain. “By treating me like a helpless child?” He backed up, watching her approach with wariness cresting in his eyes. “By not giving me a chance to weigh in on a decision that impacted my own life?”

She slammed her palms into his chest and pushed him out the door and then slammed it shut, missing him by inches.

All those empty, lonely nights of second guessing.

“You had no right to make that decision for me,” she yelled at the white, beveled door, frustrated rage giving the words weight. “It’s my life. My choice. You had no right taking the decision away from me.”

Dead silence followed.

He’d heard her. She was certain of that. Tag had probably heard her too, from wherever he’d disappeared to.

He dumped me to protect me??? Seriously?

The outrage still revving her heart and shortening her breath, she turned, heading back to the steaming tub. Without bothering to unwrap her bandaged palms, she stripped off her clothes.

She should unwind the bandages from her hands and knees, save the gauze, but…
what the hell
… Still steaming, she stepped into the tub and sank down. The pressurized rage suddenly evaporated, as though the hot water had sucked it right out of her. Deflated, she slumped down until the soothing bath swamped her shoulders. With a sigh, she tried to relax, waiting for the liquid heat to loosen her rigid muscles and joints. Slowly the bandages unraveled and floated to the surface.

How could he have been so misguided?

How would he have liked it if I’d made such a sweeping decision on my own? Would he be okay without a voice in the relationship?

She shifted, grimacing as the water sloshed over the side of the tub. Lucas had been right about one thing. Her hands and knees stung much—
much
—worse than before. And an ugly, deep throb had started hammering her knees. The ice had worked better at reducing the knee trauma. The liquid heat was bringing the pain back in full force.

How could the man be so freaking smart in some ways and such an idiot in others?

She gave the bath a few more minutes, before hauling herself up and stepping out of the tub. Luckily the heat had loosened her arms and legs enough to allow for maneuverability, although her knees throbbed like someone had taken a baseball bat to them. After wrapping herself in a huge, surprising fluffy towel considering it came from a bachelor’s towel rack, she opened the bathroom door and peeked into the bedroom. Her suitcase was on the bed, so was Cuddles, who appeared to be fast asleep. Lucas, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found.

Thank God.

That hot balloon of outrage swelled again, pressing against her chest.
How could he be so
…Her heart sped up. Her scalp tightened. Scowling, she marched out of the bathroom, trying to calm herself. If she didn’t cool off, she was liable to give herself an aneurism next time she ran into the man.

Cuddles’s tail started wagging as Emma approached the bed.

“Hey, baby.” She sat down beside the dog and ran her fingers over Cuddles’s bulbous head and down her jaw to scratch beneath her chin. “How about we take a nap and then get that insulin shot out of the way?”

The dog’s tail wagged harder. Taking that as a sign of agreement, Emma rose to her feet again and unzipped her suitcase, rummaging through her clothes until she found her cotton pajamas.

The conglomerate of kittens and half-moons haphazardly splattered across the fabric were cute, rather than sexy. But then she hadn’t packed the night before with an old lover in mind. Not that she needed night attire—sexy or otherwise—when it came to Lucas Trammel. She’d spent the entire three days and nights they’d hooked up pretty much naked.

Although not all of those seventy-two hours had been spent in this bed.

Her breath caught as erotic memories exploded in her mind.

Rippling muscles beneath her fingers… a hard, hot body pressing her into the mattress…the feel of him moving above her, inside of her…

Whoa!

She slammed the door on those memories and dropped the towel, scrambling into her P.J.s as quickly as her painfully stiff body would allow. After zipping her suitcase up, she dragged it off the bed and clambered beneath the covers. Cuddles crept up the mattress to curl against her left side.

Yeah, she’d just rest for a minute and let the pain meds kick in. There was plenty of time before Cuddles’s second insulin shot was due.

The fallacy with that plan became immediately apparent. She turned her head, took a deep breath, and got a lungful of Lucas. Or at least his scent, that soapy, lightly musky scent she instantly identified as his. Her body melted, softening and moistening in preparation for something that was not going to happen. Never going to happen again. Ever.

Although…she stretched, her muscles suddenly limber and light. Her skinned hands and knees stopped stinging. Even the throbbing in her knees faded into the distance, something sensed more than felt.

She stretched again, a lazy haze falling over her. Lucas really should bottle his scent as a painkiller.

L
ucas heaved
his end of Emma’s shredded couch onto the tailgate of Mooch’s pickup and headed back to give Tag a hand with the rear end of the load. Together, they drove the sofa through the mounds of splintered, broken or crushed objects that they’d dragged from Emma’s home.

“What’s up with you and Em?” Tag shot a shrewd glance in Lucas’s direction. “There’s less ice in the Lambert Glacier.”

Wasn’t that the truth? Although the cold front wasn’t coming from him. Lucas grimaced, pushing back from the hot red metal of Mooch’s truck. “Just a misunderstanding.”

Not that there was any chance of misinterpreting her reaction to his explanation. She’d made her disapproval crystal clear. And loud. Megaphone loud.

He’d backed off, giving her time to calm down. But after half an hour of silence, he checked in on her. She could have fallen asleep in the tub. Or found herself grounded in the water, unable to gain her feet and too prideful to call for help. Instead, he’d found her fast asleep in his bed.

The sight of her curled beneath his blankets, her face cuddling his pillow, had brought instant satisfaction, along with soul-deep possessiveness. She belonged there: in his bed, beneath his protection. The only thing that would have made the moment sweeter was if he’d been lying there beside her, holding her warm, soft, weight in his arms.

“So you arranged this clean up detail to make amends?” Tag asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Because bro, I don’t think it’s working.”

Lucas offered his roommate a tight smile of acknowledgement, doing his best to stomp down the lingering frustration.

Tag was right. His cleanup crew hadn’t smoothed the icy waters. But then, he hadn’t rounded the guys up to kiss her ass. He’d planned the clean-up party right after Rio had told him about the break in and the mess the bastards had made of her house—hours before her combustible reaction the night before. Besides, he had nothing to make amends for. He’d done what he’d thought best at the time. Okay, so maybe currently he wasn’t so sure he’d made the right call. But three months ago, he’d acted with the best of intentions.

He stepped back from the tailgate, pausing to arch his back. At Tag’s raised eyebrows he grunted in disgust. “Apparently my back takes exception to sleeping on the couch. But a rickety cot, or the burning sand, or a rock ledge in the damn Aladagh Mountains—fuck—bedding down there is just fine.”

Most of his spine’s current bitchiness could be attributed to the tossing and turning he’d done the night before. He hadn’t slept worth shit. Yeah, the couch had pretty much gutted the possibility of shut-eye—but not for the reason he’d given Tag. The damn thing had launched a whole series of memories. Erotic memories. Flashbacks of exactly what they’d done on this sofa all those weeks ago. Which segued into what they’d done in his bedroom, on his bed, beneath those covers she was cuddling up to. The night had turned into one endless X-rated memory—not exactly conducive to sleep.

“You’re getting old,” Tag drawled. “Special Ops is for us young bucks, you old coots—hell, won’t be long before you’ll need the two arm lift just to get you to evac.”

The two arm lift? Lucas snorted. No way in hell was his team carrying him to the chopper, unless he was unconscious.

“No shit, those three months I have on you make all the difference,” Lucas said, giving his buddy a hard shove.

Tag staggered beneath the thrust, but recovered instantly, pinning Lucas with an astute gaze. “So is something going on between you and Emma?”

“Hell, no. Nothing.”

He wasn’t even lying. There
wasn’t
anything going on between Emma and him. Not now. Fuck, judging by the arctic freeze surrounding her whenever he wandered too close—likely not ever…again.

Dammit.

By the time she’d awoken from her nap the night before, joining him and Tag in the living room, her explosive rage had been frozen by layers of ice. He’d chanced frostbite just from brushing against her. She’d fumbled through her dog’s insulin shot with frigid stubbornness, refusing his help, even though he’d inserted more needles into human flesh than he could remember.

Tag, on the other hand—oh yeah, she’d accepted that bastard’s help just fine. It had been bad enough watching Tag’s dark hair mingling with her blonde curls, his huge body dwarfing her slight frame as he instructed her on the intricacies of injections. He’d had to unlock his fists at least three times during that whole ordeal. But when the bastard had sat Emma down and tended to her skinned palms, and then wrapped her in his arms, burying her in his way-too-fucking-tight embrace, for way-too-fucking-long…well hell, the asshole was lucky he’d awoken with a full set of teeth this morning.

His earlier bad temper back in full force, Lucas glowered down the street. The scowl faded to a frown upon catching sight of a black SUV one block down. The car hadn’t been there when they arrived.

Tag turned, following Lucas’s gaze. “What’s up?”

“The black SUV, one block down, on the right. It wasn’t there an hour ago, did you see it arrive?”

“No.” Tag took a step forward, his gaze sharpening. “You think it needs checking out?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Don’t move on it until I get back.” Turning, he jogged up the path, taking the steps to Emma’s porch two at a time.

The door to her bungalow was wide open, which was on him and Tag, since they hadn’t closed it during the couch hauling. In the living room, Devlin Russo, his lieutenant commander, looked up, broom in one hand and dust pan in the other. A garbage can full of broken glass and splinters of wood stood next to him. Lucas checked out the room. No sign of Emma. Disappointment collided with relief, leaving him curiously conflicted.

“Tag and I are headed out on recon. Don’t let Emma out of your sight.” He didn’t wait for his L.C.’s acknowledgement, simply turned and hoofed it back down the steps, the wood creaking beneath his boots.

The SUV was probably nothing, just a local resident who’d returned home. But he wasn’t taking chances. Not with Emma’s life. Not after what had happened in front of this house the day before. He and Tag would take a walk and see if anyone was inside the vehicle.

He joined Tag next to Mooch’s truck, and the two of them headed down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace. No sense in alerting anyone to their interest.

Halfway to their destination, Tag gave a soft whistle. “It’s occupied.”

Lucas could see that. His heart rate picked up, so did his respiration. But the casual sweep of his eyes and swing of his legs didn’t change. “Could mean nothing. Could be some teenager staking out his crush, working up the courage to ask her out.”

Ten more seconds of walking and Tag offered him a dry smile. “How many teenagers you know that look like they’re forty?”

Tag had a point. The guy behind the wheel had left his teenage years long behind. And damn, with the exception of the windshield, the windows were all tinted.

“You want to call Rio?” Tag asked.

They took a few more casual steps while Lucas thought that over. What exactly could Rio do? Haul him in for questioning? On what grounds? The guy wasn’t exactly trespassing, parked along the side of the road like that. He could simply claim he’d pulled over in a quiet neighborhood to eat lunch.

Then the guy lifted a fifth of whiskey and took a long, hard pull. Okay, Rio could haul in in on the open container—but still. Hell, they didn’t even know if he was one of the bastards after Emma.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Lucas said, shooting Tag a grin that showed most of his teeth. He abruptly turned, walking back the way they’d come. With luck they hadn’t scared the bastard off. “Let’s give him some rope. See what he does with it.”

“What are you thinking?” Tag asked, easily keeping pace.

“If he isn’t involved, no sense in harassing him. But if he’s one of those bastards from the van, I’ve got some questions for him. He ain’t getting to Emma.” He’d make damn sure of that. “But it won’t hurt to give him a look at where we stashed her.”

Tag’s crooked smile was buoyant, full of anticipation. “You think he’ll follow us home?”

Wouldn’t that be nice?

“If he does, we’ll know he’s one of them. If he’s stupid, he and his half-assed buddies will try to get to her.”

His stride increasing, as though he couldn’t wait for the fun to begin, Tag shot him an admiring look. “That’s one way to get around the Posse Comitatus Act.”

Exactly. The cops could hardly blame them for defending themselves, and safe guarding their home. And while the boys in blue raced to their rescue, they’d sit Emma’s attackers down for a heart to heart…with maybe a couple of fists to the face to speed up the confession.

* * *

E
mma glanced
around her trashed bedroom. At least they were making progress, although it was taking forever since her pace was snail slow these days.

“Ah, Miss…I can’t let you do that.” The slow to smile, far too serious young man Tag had introduced as Milly stepped forward to ease the laundry basket from Emma’s hands.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic grip, which was stupid, stupid, stupid according to her abraded, disgruntled hands. They took Milly’s side with stinging vengeance, forcing her to let go.

“I’m perfectly capable of doing
something
,” Emma said, lifting her chin, even though her knees and hands, and well…every inch of her body violently disagreed.

She hadn’t thought her body could hurt any worse than it had the night before. Unfortunately, she’d been wrong. The pain killers Tag had given her, after they’d administered Cuddles’s shot, had gotten her through the night. But she’d woken barely able to move. A glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen had been sitting on the bedside table. She wanted to believe that Tag had been the angel who’d left the painkillers, but Cuddles hadn’t barked. The lack of barking indicated her angel had been someone the dog had acclimatized to…which meant Lucas.

The thought of Lucas standing there, watching her sleep…a shudder worked its way through her body. But it wasn’t one of discomfort, more like sexual titillation. Lucas had primed her for early morning erotic escapades, she just hadn’t had a chance to indulge in them lately.

If it hadn’t been for Cuddles, Emma would have stayed in bed all day. But the dog needed her insulin, which was in the kitchen, which meant getting up. The living room and kitchen had been empty, no sign of Lucas. But the blanket and pillow tossed on the couch confirmed where he’d spent the night. And then Tag had shown up and told her
why
she hadn’t seen Lucas yet. The man had rounded up a crew to clean her house.

She should have been furious about his over-reaching. Instead, relief had flooded her. The cleanup had loomed over her since Friday night, a dreaded weight dragging her down. There was so much work involved, it had been hard to face it…alone.

Facing it with six, athletic, disciplined SEALs by her side was another thing entirely. They’d torn through the cleanup like the warriors they were. She knew five out of the six men from Lucas’s periodic barbeques, however Milly was a new face. From eavesdropping on the conversations surrounding her, he was also new to their team. Fresh out of training. Half the time they addressed him as banana, or minnow, or
boy.

Boy
? There was nothing childish about the soft spoken, sandy haired, hazel eyed, all-too-masculine young man. There was nothing feminine about him either, so how’d he end up with such a girlish name? She suspected it had something to do with the banana and minnow and boy salutations—some kind of ritual hazing. Like a frat house.

“Where do you want this?” Milly asked, indicating the basket he held by lifting it.

“The laundry room. Two doors to the right.” She followed him out of her bedroom and down the short hall past the bathroom. “What’s your real name?” she asked as he set the basket in front of the washing machine. There was no way she was calling him Milly.

“Cody Millian.” He cocked his head, his smile relaxed and knowing. “But my friends call me Milly.”

Well, at least his SEAL buddies did. He didn’t seem to mind though. Of course, given the frat mentality, if he showed any signs of minding he’d be stuck with the name forever and called it incessantly.

“Well,
Milly,
” she said, twisting the dial on the washing machine to heavy duty and pulling the knob out. The sound of water hitting the steel drum filled the room. “I’m perfectly capable of lifting cloth, so I’ll do the laundry.”

It just might be the only thing she was capable of handling today. He must have agreed with her assessment, because he offered her another of those unhurried smiles and disappeared out the door.

By the time she returned to the living room, the room had been completely cleared of broken furniture and the floor had been swept. The kitchen had been cleaned up too. Devlin Russo, Tag’s lieutenant commander—which made him Lucas’s as well—was wrist deep in soapy water with clean dishes draining into the sink on his right and a pile of dirty dishes on his left. She stopped to stare. There was just something so incongruous about a lethal, weathered warrior doing dishes.