Major Attraction (15 page)

“But physical attraction doesn't mean anything. I won't be sentimental over Ethan McCormick forty years from now the way you are with Bobby Tortelli.” She turned the doorknob; she was done defending what she did or didn't feel. She was tired of trying to figure it out. “Now I really do need to get to work.”

 

A
N HOUR AND A HALF
later, J.C. rolled the kinks from her neck and stood up to stretch behind the walls of her cubicle. She'd finally finished making notes and sorting the messages into three piles—those praising relationships with military hunks, those with complaints, and those with a specific question to address in her column.

But before she tackled the hundred plus e-mails from the Dr. Cyn Web site, she needed coffee. Mocha latte would be nice. Her first date with Ethan had been over mocha latte.

Her last date would be coming sooner than she wanted.

She tipped her head to the ceiling and silently cursed the remorseful thought. As strong and delicious as both could be, she didn't need mocha latte or Ethan McCormick to get through life. Right now, she would settle for something sweet and loaded with caffeine.

J.C. collided with Ben Grant on her way out into the hall. Papers flew into the air and rained down. “Oops. Sorry.”

“My fault. I wasn't looking.” Ben's stout fingers clung briefly to her shoulders until she regained her balance.

“Don't tell me you brought me more,” J.C. teased, squatting down to help gather the scattered notes.

“'Fraid so.” Ben handed her the ones he'd retrieved, pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and stood.

J.C. gladly accepted his outstretched hand and rose beside him. “Thanks. You're a scholar and a gent.”

Though he was probably eight or nine years younger than J.C., he blushed at the compliment. “I try to follow a code of honor with the ladies.”

“I'm sure they love that.” J.C. smiled. “Are these all for Dr. Cyn, or are any of them actually messages I need to return?”

Ben shuffled through the notes and placed one on top of her stack. “You might want to give this guy a call. He said he had some business to discuss with you. He sounded pretty agitated on the phone.”

“Agitated?” J.C. immediately thought of Juan Guerro. It might just as well be a client fighting an anxiety attack. But logic couldn't quite reach the panic button to calm her fears. She combed her fingers through her hair, straightened the fringe of her bangs, then raked her fingers through it again. “How do you mean? Agitated about what?”

Ben tunneled his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged an apology. “He didn't say.”

“But he asked for J.C.,” she clarified, “not Dr. Cyn?”

Ben nodded, shifting nervously on both feet as if picking up on her concerns. “I think so.”

She scanned the note from top to bottom, trying to read hidden meanings in Ben's heavy-handed, block letter scrawl. Surely, Corporal Guerro hadn't… “There's no name.”

“He said he was someone you knew.”

“Someone I know?”

I'll call you.
Juan had promised. Threatened.

As if she'd suddenly stepped into a walk-in freezer, J.C.'s blood chilled in her veins. She hugged her arms across her stomach but couldn't find any warmth. Though most of the office had cleared out by lunchtime on a Saturday, she stretched up on tiptoe, her gaze darting to every closed door and shadow, trying to see around corners and over cubicle walls. She couldn't shake the feeling that someone was out there watching her, hating her.

Hating J.C. Not Dr. Cyn.

As she settled back on her heels, she couldn't help but look down at the purpling bruises around her wrist. With
the passage of time, the discolorations had risen to the surface and begun to take on the distinct shape of a man's powerful grip.

“J.C.?” She flinched at the touch of Ben's hand on her shoulder. He quickly pulled away. “Is something wrong?”

“I'm sorry.” She regretted the worry she'd put in his earnest green eyes.

Was this Juan's promised call to force her to smooth things over with Ethan for him? Unless Ethan already
had
made trouble for him. In that case, she might be facing something much more dangerous than an “agitated” phone call. J.C. clutched at Ben's sleeve, demanding answers. “Did the caller have an accent? Could you tell?”

“An accent?”

“Hispanic, maybe?”

“Naw. He was pretty angry, and I couldn't catch every word he said. But it was all in English.”

“You don't have any clue…?”

They both jumped at the chirping sound from beneath her desk. “That's my cell.” J.C. hurried back to her desk and reached underneath for her purse. She waved the messages at Ben and apologized. “I didn't mean to grill the messenger.”

He took a hesitant step into her cubicle. “You know, maybe you should say something nice about the military in your column tomorrow. Readers might like you better.” J.C. pulled out her phone and flipped it open. She didn't recognize the number. Ben was still trying to make a point. “You might get fewer calls.”

“I'll keep that in mind, thanks.” But if a vengeful corporal was harassing her, a little controversy over Dr. Cyn might be the least of her problems. J.C. tuned out the rest
of Ben's suggestions and held her breath as she pressed the talk button.
Don't be him.
“J. C. Gardner.”

“It's Ethan.”

“Thank God.” Her edginess rattled out on a noisy sigh and her entire world shrank down to the sound of that clipped, authoritative voice in her ear.

“You okay? J.C.?”

That impossibly deep voice dropped to a guarded hush. The warm, alert, slightly proprietary tone skittered along her nerves, sank into her bones and reassured her like a protective hug.

“I'm just glad to hear your…”

Reassured
her? Whoa. J.C. quickly backtracked from the warm, fuzzy connection. She wanted Ethan for sex and research. Period. She didn't want to depend on him to ease her fears or make her feel a little less alone. She didn't want to start thinking he'd be there for a special word or comforting touch.

After two weeks, he wouldn't be there for anything.

J.C. summoned her composure and a touch of sarcasm. “You're just the man I want to talk to.”

He paused for nearly as long as she had. Listening to the long, even sound of his deep breathing, she wondered if he was shifting through mental gears the way she had, trying to get back to friendly yet distant relations after an unplanned emotion had popped through.

“Should I be worried you're going to spring another crazy proposition on me?” he asked.

Indulging their incredible sexual compatibility was crazier than asking a woman he'd rescued in a parking lot to be his fiancée for a couple of weeks? She might have argued that before she'd gotten the anonymous message. But right now her mind was spinning with the possibilities of how to broach the topic without giving too much away.

J.C. was vaguely aware of Ben giving her one of his laid-back salutes and leaving as she curled her leg beneath her and perched on her chair. In the end, she chose the blunt approach. “Do you remember those corporals who got a little too friendly outside Groucho's Pub the other night?”

A beat of dead silence put her instantly on guard. Of course, he'd remember them. “A man forcing himself on a woman isn't my idea of friendly. But don't worry about them—I made sure they reported back to their unit at Quantico.”

“You didn't.” J.C. shot to her feet and circled her desk. “You contacted them?”

“My aide spoke to their commanding officer. Is there a problem?”

J.C. raked her fingers into her hair and silently cursed the incoherent panic that made a mockery of her level-headed survival instincts. That must have been Juan on the phone. He knew where she lived. Where she worked. He wasn't afraid to take matters into his own hands to save his skin. She had to make this right. She stopped midpace and tried to sound reasonable. “You chewed them out already, Ethan, and gave one of them a bloody nose. Why don't you leave it well enough alone?”

“You brought it up.” It was both a fair defense and a subtle question.

One thing she had learned from her father was that the best way to lie was to blend it with a grain of truth. “I was just curious to know how the Marines handle discipline. Would an offense committed off base and out of uniform be punishable by the Corps? Or would the local police handle it? You know that notebook I was writing in at the bar? I'm actually conducting some research for—”

“Is there something you're not telling me?” he asked.

She could hear him up and moving now. Busy and methodical—with a sense of purpose that alarmed her. J.C. crossed her arms and sank into her chair.

“Dammit, J.C. This is what I do. I handle security. I keep people safe. You don't sound safe.”

Sound
safe? How could he know? Did his ears hear unspoken fears the way his eyes saw every secret desire?

“Talk to me,” he insisted.

Those on-the-money instincts and that can't-say-no-to voice stripped the last of her defenses. “I, um, got a phone call that rattled me a little.”

“Son of a bitch. He called you?” The movement stopped on the other end of the line, as if the tiny, hesitant admission had appeased his protective anger.

And drawn them closer in a way healthy lust never could.

“Actually he didn't identify himself, and an intern took the message. But after he—” J.C. snapped her mouth shut, catching herself too late. If an anonymous phone call put Ethan on red alert, news of another physical confrontation would probably seal Juan Guerro's fate. And thus, her own. She forced a laughing sound in her throat. “Forget about it. It probably wasn't even him.”

“After he what?” The major didn't miss a detail. “An unidentified caller isn't going to scare you unless he made a threat over the phone or he's contacted you before.”

She wouldn't answer that one. She'd already made a dangerous mistake by confiding her fear to him in the first place. It wasn't like he'd be there to clean up the mess after two weeks if things got worse. “Was there a reason you called?”

“What the hell is going on?”

J.C. ignored his demand. “Did Walter Craddock invite us to something else tonight? I thought we had a break.”

“Just because you don't answer me now doesn't mean I won't still be looking for an answer later.” Damn stubborn Marine. But thankfully, he finally moved on. “I wondered if we could meet. Without an audience. Something you said last night got me to thinking, and I want to take care of it.”

“The two weeks of wild sex thing?” She had to ask.

He didn't laugh. “I've had some thoughts on that, too.”

“So, have you decided to repay my generous contribution to your promotion by giving me thirteen more nights like last night?”

“I don't know. It depends.”

“On what?”

A seemingly endless silence baited her curiosity, filled her with doubt, stretched her patience to the limit.

“On whether I kiss you again.”

His stark statement touched her soul and awakened her body, giving her a buzz of anticipation that was part hope because she wanted it so much, and part fear…

Because she wanted it so much.

“How about dinner at my place?” she offered. “Around seven. We'll eat whatever falls out of the fridge.”

“I'll be there at nineteen hundred hours.”

J.C. didn't know whether to look forward to this evening or dread the promised visit. But she got out her lip balm and smoothed it over her lips, just in case.

D
R
. C
YN—

My husband is coming home for a forty-eight-hour furlough after being overseas for six months. I want to make the most of our short time together, but I'm worried things will be awkward for us after so much time apart. What's the quickest, most effective way to seduce him?

Signed,

Lonesome for the Lance Corporal

“Lonesome, huh?” J.C. copied the question from her Web site into the text for her next column.

Her reader wasn't the only one anxious about the man showing up at her door. From her spot on the purple chaise, she glanced up at the clock in the kitchen. Quarter to seven. Eighteen forty-five in Ethan talk. He would be here any minute.

She'd alerted Norman, the retired Navy M.P. turned building security guard, that she was expecting a guest and to let him in. But which Ethan would it be? The diehard Marine, determined to make the world a safer place, who followed a well-structured path whether it meant career advancement or keeping emotions in check? Or the sexy man who muddled through conversations and dance lessons with endearing self-consciousness, and who made love with his eyes almost as well as he did with his body?

She was half-afraid she was falling for the man.

Because that meant she could be hurt by the major.

J.C. shook off the sentimental notions and reprimanded herself. “You're an advice columnist, not a poet.” She reread the question on her laptop. “The quickest, surefire way to seduce a man?”

She deliberated for maybe two seconds on her answer. This one was a no-brainer. With a knowing nod of her head, she typed,

Dear Lonesome—

Get naked.

Literally.

Lock up your clothes for the weekend. You won't need them.

Most men are more interested in getting to the goods than in unwrapping the package. If you're pressed for time, don't waste precious seconds fumbling with snaps and hooks. And why throw away money on seductive lingerie that will wind up in a wad on the floor, anyway? Spend it on finger foods, instead. They're a better alternative than a sit-down dinner for locked-in-the-bedroom-style weekends. Cleanup's easy, and a dribble of chocolate fondue or a strategically placed olive can be a creative lead-in to round two—or twelve! Just make sure you have plenty of condoms on hand, and leave the phone off the hook.

Oh, and you might want to take a nice long nap before he gets home.

Good luck!

J.C.'s gaze slid to the clock again. Eighteen-fifty. She wiggled her bare toes in restless anticipation and briefly considered taking her own advice. Maybe she should slip out of her jeans and T-shirt and greet Ethan at the door naked. That would give him more than a hint on how serious she was about having sex with him again.

But a sager, less adventurous voice from her conscience
urged her to keep her clothes on. No sense risking an awkward moment. As much as she knew he was interested, from the tone of his conversation earlier, Ethan might not be planning to take her up on her offer of an affair. Major Do-Right might be coming over to ask her more questions about Juan Guerro. Or worse, he might be having second thoughts about her after that romp in the back of the limo.

Maybe he'd decided she wasn't lady enough to impress General Craddock, that a major's wife-to-be shouldn't be so open about getting it on with the major. It probably wasn't proper officer-club etiquette.

Maybe, like her father, he was already anxious to move on to someone new, someone less complicated, someone who created fewer waves in his life.

A firm knock on her door announced Ethan's arrival.

Maybe she was going to get her answer soon enough.

J.C. put away her laptop, then finger-fluffed her hair as she hurried across the apartment to let him in.

“Don't you ask who it is before you open the door?” Ethan filled the hallway outside, looking equally impressive in jeans and a faded red polo shirt as he had in his evening dress uniform.

“Good evening to you, too.”

Ethan marched past instead of greeting her. “At least get a peephole installed so you can see who's on the other side.” He shifted the brown paper sack he carried into one arm and poked around her door, inspecting the thickness and design of the wood. “I could install one for you if your super won't do it.”

J.C. pulled the door from his grip and closed it, twisting the knob and dead bolt to lock it. “The security around here is fine,” she argued gently, needing to believe it herself.

When she turned around, she discovered him still hovering close behind her. Was it her imagination, or did Ethan seem bigger when he was in protective mode like this? Must be her bare feet, she reasoned, that made him seem taller, broader. Tougher. “The outside doors are all locked at eleven,” she explained. “Besides, you can't get in unless I leave your name with Norman or I go down to meet you.”

“There's always a way to get in.” There was nothing ominous in his tone. But spoken so matter-of-factly, it spooked her just the same. Someone
could
get into her apartment if they were determined to.

Warding off a shiver of apprehension, J.C. fixed a smile on her face and moved on to a lighter topic. She pointed to the sack. “You don't have to bring a present every time you come over.”

“Where do you want this?” He leaned down and let her glimpse a six-pack of chilled, long-neck beers. “I probably should have brought wine, but I didn't know what went with a ‘falling out of the fridge' menu. So I just brought something I like to drink.”

“Works for me.” It looked yummy, in fact, with beads of condensation gathering on the foreign label and hinting at the rich, tangy flavor of the golden liquid inside.

She ushered him into the tiny space that passed for a dining room and kitchen and pointed to the fridge. There was barely room for Ethan to slide by her between the sink and butcher block console that doubled her counter-space. Though they didn't touch, her pulse revved at the suggestion of his body heat so close to hers. A whiff of his warm, freshly showered skin got her senses buzzing, her nipples tingling and her heart wishing he'd drop that sack, take her in his arms and lose control the way he had last night.

J.C. ignored her body's urgent response and busied her hands opening a can of tomato sauce to add to the hamburger and mushroom mixture she'd already prepared. She wanted Ethan to make the first move tonight. She'd already put herself out there—proposing an affair. If making good on that request wasn't the reason he was here tonight… She had a feeling it wasn't too soon to start distancing herself from him. He was going to leave her—if not tonight, then sometime soon. And she would be damned if she would let another military man hurt her.

“Why don't you open a couple for us and put the others away?” she suggested, pleased with the nonchalant tone she'd managed, in order to hide the antsy concerns inside her. “I've got water boiling on the stove—I hope spaghetti and salads are okay.”

“Sounds good to me. What can I do to help?”

She took the beer from his hand and replaced it with a long, crusty loaf of bread and a serrated knife. “You asked.”

Cooking and eating dinner turned out to be the most normal time they'd spent together. It was almost like a real first date, filled with questions and gentle teasing and self-conscious laughter. Almost. An underlying current of tension amplified every remotely sexual action—sucking a stray spaghetti noodle through pursed lips, biting down on the elongated tip of the garlic bread—reminding J.C. of the unique, intense, deeper knowledge of each other they shared.

For a short while, J.C. wondered if that had been Ethan's purpose when he suggested they meet—that they simply didn't know enough about each other to pull off the engagement charade. He shared a funny story about his brother, Travis, and told how his sister once worked undercover for the FBI. She talked about her mom and
second husband and the goofy things her stepfather did to show how much he adored her mother.

“That's the second time you've mentioned your mom remarrying.” Ethan mopped a spot of sauce off his plate with a crust of bread and popped it into his mouth. “Did your father pass away?”

J.C.'s dinner turned into a lump at the bottom of her stomach. Damn. The easy camaraderie vanished and old walls tried to reassert themselves. She hadn't been thinking. If she'd been watching herself, she could have steered the conversation on to a safer topic. But, since they were talking about family, it was a logical question to ask.

She blinked and looked down at her empty plate when she realized how long she'd been staring into those deep gray eyes. Picking at the label on her beer bottle, she tried to answer with the same, logical detachment. “No. But he really wasn't much of a father—definitely not much of a husband to Mom. So when he left, it really wasn't much of a loss.”

Ethan reached across table and stilled the nervous movement of her fingers. “I'm sorry to hear that. I can't imagine what that would be like. The five of us were always so close. Dad was always there for us, especially after Mom died.”

What? Something didn't compute. J.C. tugged her hand from his comforting grip. “I thought you said your dad was a retired general.”

“He is.”

A sigh huffed from deep in her chest. “Well, how was he there for you? Wasn't he always traveling somewhere on assignment? Gone for long periods of time?”

“Yeah.” Ethan nodded, leaning back in his chair. “But we still knew he loved us. He called and wrote when he
could. We spent a lot of time together—camping, fishing, hanging out—when he was home.”

His description of an all-American family didn't jive with her conception of military relationships. “Didn't you feel abandoned when he was gone?”

“Abandoned?” Ethan's eyes narrowed and studied her, as if questioning where her curiosity was coming from. He shook his head. “It was his job.”

“But he must have missed so much of your lives growing up. You must have resented that.”

“It's a way of life, J.C. Sure, there were things he missed. When Travis broke his arm, climbing the tree in our backyard to retrieve his kite. When my sister, Caitie, had her first asthma attack. My high-school graduation. And I know it killed him when Mom passed away in the hospital and he couldn't get home in time to see her that last day.

“But then, I didn't get home to say goodbye, either. Once she got sick, she just went so fast.” His eyes drifted shut and a look of pain washed over his face. “There have only been a few times in my life when I thought this job sucked. That day was one of them.”

“I'm sorry.” Ethan's obvious pain overrode her own. “I didn't mean to dredge up sad memories.”

She brushed her fingers across the back of his hand where it rested on the table. Instead of startling him, she was the one who jumped when he flipped his hand over and latched on to hers. His eyes popped open and he stared at their clasp of hands for several long, silent moments.

But with just as quick a motion, he snatched his hand away, as if he didn't deserve—or didn't want—her comfort. Or maybe it was just the fact he was talking about
things he'd told her he would never share that made him in such a hurry to move on.

He picked up his beer and polished it off with one long swallow, then set it down with a decisive thump. “It wasn't that Dad didn't care. He was away, but he wasn't skipping out on us. We were still his kids, his wife, his family. He was still our dad. He loved us. We loved him. Still do.”

“You're lucky to have a family like that,” she stated quietly, meaning it.

It seemed impossible to reconcile Ethan's loving description of growing up a military brat with her own childhood. She remembered bracing herself for her father's return, while Ethan and his brother and sister had looked forward to their father's arrival.

But were the McCormicks the exception to the quality of life with a military man in the family? Or was she?

The idea of continuing to press her point for research purposes or personal enlightenment seemed cruel. He'd opened up a crack in his emotional armor, and he needed some time to let the newly exposed scar heal. She could use a little regrouping time herself.

J.C. would willingly listen to him talk about his mother and family and guilt and loss for as long as he needed. But she suspected the time for sharing had ended. Granting him his moody silence, she got up and carried their plates to the sink.

She had the dishes loaded in the dishwasher, and hot water running in the sink for the spaghetti pot when she heard his chair scrape across the tile floor. She felt the heat of him behind her before she heard another sound.

“Sorry.” He opened the cabinet beside her hip and dropped their empty bottles into the recycling bin she'd shown him earlier. “Mom always told us that if you didn't
cook the meal, you had to help clean up.” With his big hand, he palmed her hip and scooted her a step to the right to open the matching cabinet door to dump the crumbs from the bread basket into the trash.

J.C. caught her breath at the burst of kinetic energy that radiated through her from that simple, familiar touch. He was emptying the garbage; she was elbow-deep in soap suds, for gosh sakes! It was hardly the time or setting to justify her body's instinctive tightening and sudden craving for more of his touch.

“I didn't mean to leave you doing all the work,” he apologized, closing the door and then scooting her back to her original place. As he spoke, his breath caressed her nape and her nipples puckered. “This goes up here, right?”

She could only nod as he reached over her head to hang the basket from the decorative iron rack she'd mounted above the sink.