Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) (15 page)

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?”