Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) (19 page)

“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.