by Julie Miller
She dipped her fingers into the rigid circle of scar tissue at his shoulder and whimpered. “Ethan,” she whispered on a husky breath, tearing her mouth from his to inspect the damage done by a rebel bullet during that hellish battle down in Central America. She kissed the spot, then hugged him tight. She found the schrapnel scars on the back of his hip from the car bomb. “Ethan?”
“I’m okay.” With his thumb, he brushed away the mist of tears that clung to her lashes. “Anytime you make it home in one piece, it’s okay.” Then he kissed her closed lids. Kissed each cheek. Kissed her lips to stop their trembling. She might be realizing for the first time the extent of what he’d done for his country. He didn’t just sit behind a desk or train Marines. He could be hurt. He had been hurt.
But she caressed each mark and breathed his name and stoked his passion. Her acceptance of his pain eased the pain of his memories.
“Jo…honey.” He was as hard as a rock and she was so damn hot. He unhooked the snap of his jeans, fumbled with the snap on hers. He’d never needed Bethany with the same intensity that he needed J.C. Maybe even before that night in Cairo when he’d shut down his heart and put his life on hold, he’d sensed he needed to hold something back, that Bethany would take advantage of any weakness—emotional or libidinous or otherwise—he exposed.
But J.C. was like a breath of fresh air to an oxygen-deprived body. “I want to lose myself inside you. I need to…let go.” Of hurts and humiliation. Of guilt and thwarted desires. He brushed his forehead against hers. A powerful backlog of emotional baggage kept in check for far too long surfaced in a soul-baring request. “I need you.”
“It’s about time you admitted that.” She wound her arms around his neck and lifted her hips, wrapping her legs around his waist and aligning herself against his aching shaft. “Quick, Ethan,” she breathed against his mouth. “I need you quick.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
Ethan cupped his hands beneath her butt, his fingers meeting at the seam of her jeans. The denim was wet and warm and in the way. His whole body clenched with the knowledge of how ready she was for him. “J.C…. Jo.” He was already rocking against her.
He wanted to carry her to the bedroom, but he knew he couldn’t last. So he set her on the nearest flat surface he could find—the butcher block table. He inhaled an uneven breath, trying to pace himself. But the scents of malt-drenched skin, of eager sex, of J.C. herself, made it impossible to slow down.
“Jo…” With rough, needy hands, he unzipped her. He shoved his hand inside her jeans and panties and lifted her out of them, tossing aside the clothes and lowering her to the crotch-high table.
“Ethan…” At the same time, she pushed his jeans down past his hips and let them fall to his knees.
“Honey…”
“Major…”
Together, they stripped his briefs down to his thighs, and in one fluid movement of strength and desire, he pulled her right to the edge of the table and plunged into her. She locked her heels behind his hips, spreading herself wider, taking him deeper.
“I need you,” he growled from deep in his throat, leaning her back and driving down into her sweet, hot channel.
“Yes.” She arched her back and moaned her delight.
“I need you.” It was barely a whisper as he pulled her back up and crushed her to his chest.
“Yes.”
“I need…”
They held each other tight as he poured himself into her—pouring out every last shred of guilt and what-if’s, ridding himself of burdens and pain, finding hope and emotional courage in the pulsating ribbons of her warm, moist heat that held him, sustained him, set him free.
J.C. WAS EMOTIONALLY drained and physically exhausted.
And ready to do it again.
She smiled against Ethan’s warm skin, tempted to lick the tangy flavor of aged hops and honest sweat right off him.
Several minutes had passed since that explosive climax, and J.C. was still wrapped up against the molded strength and abundant heat of Ethan’s chest. Good thing, too, she reasoned, feeling the chill of the nighttime air seeping into her quiet apartment and raising goose bumps across her skin.
Across a lot of skin. She was still perched on the edge of the butcher block table, wearing nothing but her bra and a contented smile. Ethan had receded and fallen out of her by now, but he hadn’t retreated a step from the vee of her legs. He held her with one gentle hand massaging her nape, the other cupping the flare of her hip.
“It’s never been like this for me with anyone else, Jo.” He crooned that shortened name against her temple, and she felt humbled, cherished by the admission. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
“I know.” She absently stroked her fingertips up and down his spine. Crisp, golden hair curled against her cheek. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. There was so much strength to cling to in this man, so much character to admire. “It’s the same for me, too.”
She wasn’t sure exactly when she’d lost control, when two weeks of fun and games in the sack had become something very real, very frightening, very close to things she didn’t want to feel.
Maybe it was when he’d poured the beer across her breast and she realized Ethan knew how to have fun, after all. Maybe it was when she’d discovered his scars and nearly wept, thinking back to the story General Craddock had told about Ethan and his men getting ambushed at the embassy in Central America. Maybe it was when he’d uttered those savage words against her throat.
I need you.
Ethan McCormick needed J. C. Gardner.
Not a counselor. Not a fake fiancée. Her.
With a winsome sigh, she snuggled her head beneath his chin and tightened her grip around his shoulders. For a few minutes out of time, she’d felt part of something greater than herself. She hadn’t been quite so alone. The wounds inflicted by her father and neglect hadn’t pierced quite so sharply.
J. C. Gardner needed Ethan McCormick.
Very frightening, indeed.
“I’m, um, sorry I wasted your last beer.”
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and stepped back to pull up his pants and fasten his jeans. “Not wasted. I don’t think a moment I’ve spent with you has been wasted.”
“You said you wanted comfort.” She crossed her legs at the ankles and hugged her naked torso, feeling suddenly very exposed. But it was self-doubt, not modesty talking. “Did this…? Did I help?”
Ethan leaned in and kissed her. “Oh, yeah. Maybe your style of listening is what I needed from you, after all.” He stroked his fingers across the curve of her lower lip as he pulled away. Something dark and territorial blazed in his gunmetal eyes. “But I don’t want you practicing that particular style of therapy with anybody else.”
His words were just possessive enough to reassure her and make her want him all over again. “I won’t,” she promised.
For two weeks, she was solely and exclusively his.
She didn’t want to think beyond that time until she had to.
“I still don’t earn much for style points, though, I guess. And I seem to be a little hard on your wardrobe.” He scooped up her discarded jeans and panties and laid them in her lap. He dropped both their shirts into the sink and ran water over them. “You know, one of these days I want to see if we can get all our clothes off and actually make it into a bed before we have our next therapy session.”
J.C. slipped into her underwear, eager to dress so they’d have the opportunity to undress. “How about tonight?” She nodded toward her bedroom, inviting him to make good on his challenge. “I’ll race—”
A horrible thunk outside the living room window startled them both. It was eerie and unnatural, like a bird crashing at full-speed into the pane. “What the—?”
But Ethan recognized the sound. He was already diving toward her by the time she turned to get a better look. She screamed as the picture window exploded into the living room, raining shards of gla
ss and terror into her tiny apartment.
11
ETHAN CINCHED HIS HANDS around J.C.’s waist and dragged her to the floor. The discomfort of the tile’s uneven edges digging into various parts of her anatomy seemed a minor inconvenience compared to Ethan’s big, solid body lying on top of her, shielding her from head to toe.
Were they under attack? He seemed to think so.
“What’s happening?” J.C. asked, fear and the weight of Ethan’s body keeping her breathing shallow.
She heard the sounds of a vehicle grinding through its gears, then squealing rubber against the pavement and speeding off into the night. The sound was so clear, she realized, because of the big, gaping hole in her living room where the window used to be.
Ethan heard it, too, judging by the sudden tensing of his muscles. She knew this was Major McCormick in his true element, doing what he’d been trained to do. There was a rigid control about him now. Deep, careful breathing. He charged the air around her with an intimidating sense of hyperawareness—a man on guard to hear or see or sense anything that might put him or his charge in danger. She felt the jerk in his legs, as if he wanted to rise up and give chase. But he stayed with her, sheltering her, protecting her.
“I’m okay,” she reassured him. “Go.”
But only when it was clear no more missiles were flying through the window did he roll to the side and let her get up. He immediately crossed toward the disastrous mess, stopping at the line where tile met carpet. He turned over his shoulder and glanced down at her bare feet. “Stay put back there.”
The carpet crunched beneath his work boots as he dashed to the side of the window, pressed his back to the wall and peered outside. J.C. scrambled into her jeans and hurried after him. But practicality forced her to obey. The minefield of jagged edges waiting to cut her feet reminded her of the aftermath of the earthquakes she’d experienced in Southern California. Large chunks of glass littered her living room furniture and floor, while a finer layer of glass dust glistened in the moonlight streaming in from outside.
The cool, humid air from outside filtered into the apartment, bringing with it the smells of the river and cherry trees about to bloom. But they weren’t comforting smells tonight. They felt invasive, out of sync in her once-safe haven.
She could only stare at the destruction and wonder at its cause. Ethan moved from the safety of the wall and briefly studied the remaining shards hanging along the top of the window. Then he spun around and surveyed the room itself before looking across at her and releasing a deep breath. “There’s no movement outside. Whoever did this is gone.”
J.C. met his gaze, wanting answers, too. “I heard a car.”
He nodded. “Me, too. I want to check with that guard of yours, find out if he saw anything.”
“If he did, he’d call the police.”
“Not a bad idea.” His distant tone told her that something else had distracted him. “We’re on the third floor, right?”
“Yes.” She dodged from side to side, trying to get a glimpse of whatever had caught his eye.
“You’d need a grenade launcher to do this much damage from that distance.”
Grenade launcher? “What are you talking about?”
Using a bandanna from his pocket, he bent down and picked up a jagged, fist-size rock from the center of the debris. He stood and held it out in his open palm. “Old-fashioned but effective.”
“That broke the window?”
“With enough force behind it, it could shatter anything.”
J.C. squinted, assessing it from across the room. “What are those markings on it?”
Ethan turned the rock in his hand. His grim look instantly put her on edge. “Friend of yours?”
He carried it to the kitchen and let her get a good, clear look at the unmistakable threat. Shock pushed the blood to her feet, leaving her feeling light-headed as she read the message a second time. Right there. In her home. Printed in a thick, hasty scrawl.
I know who you are.
ETHAN HOVERED in the background as the two police officers took pictures and statements and told J.C. she could start cleaning up.
He’d already retrieved a clean USMC T-shirt from his truck to put on, and rounded up a piece of plywood and some tools from the building’s super. He’d brought her socks, tennis shoes and a gray sweatshirt from her bedroom to put on. He wanted to find her a jacket or pull the blanket from her bed, because even though the spring air kept the temperature in the fifties, she’d been shivering ever since she’d read the words on that rock.
Ethan already knew as much as the cops had found out. Like Ethan, the security guard Norman Flynn had recognized the telltale explosion of heavy gunfire, but hadn’t seen the shooter. Norm had caught a glimpse of a small, beat-up car speeding down the street beside the apartment building. But it had been too dark to catch any other detail besides the Virginia license plate.
The rock that had been used as a projectile had striation marks that indicated it had been fired from a large-bore weapon—the kind that anyone outside the military or law enforcement shouldn’t legally have their hands on. The message indicated it had been fired on purpose and not as some teenage prank. The pallor of J.C.’s skin told him the message had hit its target.
Despite his concerns for her health and safety, J.C. had hung in there for almost two hours, answering each question the cops asked her. No, she didn’t recognize the handwriting. Yes, she supposed she knew someone who might want to scare her. The suspect’s name she gave twisted in Ethan’s gut.
Corporal Juan Guerro.
The need to take action, to make this right for her—to punish the bastard who’d meant to terrify her and who might damn well have killed her if she’d been standing close to that window—burned inside every bone of his body. The bruises on her arm had come from Guerro, she’d told the officers—he’d stopped her on her morning walk. And that crazy, anonymous phone call had rattled her this afternoon—before she’d made up some flimsy excuse and dismissed it.
All the signs that she was in trouble had been there, and he hadn’t seen them. She hadn’t wanted him to. Why?
With his connections to both the military and security, wasn’t he the obvious resource to turn to for help with Guerro? And that was just the practical reason for confiding in him. The deeper, less logical, and far more personal reason for letting him in to share her burden and keep her safe was that he was falling in love with her.
Correction. He was there. He was too honest to try to convince himself it was just lust or loneliness talking—though J.C. had sated both those needs in him. Somewhere between class and brains and sirenlike sex appeal, she’d gotten under his skin. Her bold approach to life had struck even deeper. But it was her patient teaching and indulgent praise and insistent need to care about his scars, inside and out, that had sealed the deal.
Yet, by putting a two-week deadline on their relationship, he might have unknowingly encouraged her to place limits on what she would feel, how much she would trust, how much she might share. He didn’t know if he possessed the skills to convince a woman he’d be interested in forever with her. She’d been gung ho about having an affair. But did that mean J.C. didn’t want anything long-term? She’d admitted she hadn’t had a lover for a while. Was that by choice? Had she not found the right guy? Or was she just not a forever kind of woman?
It pained him to think the latter might be true.
Not just for his sake, but for hers.
Even if their fake engagement turned out to be nothing more than two weeks of outrageously satisfying sex, he didn’t want her to face whatever this cowardly attack turned out to be on her own. He didn’t want her to deal with any of the challenges life threw her way alone.
It was his sworn duty to protect the citizens of the United States.
He made a silent vow of his own to keep this one particular citizen safe. Even if she didn’t want him to.
Ethan slipped on a pair of work gloves and headed in
to the living room with a double-lined paper sack to begin picking up the debris while J.C. showed the two cops out.
She closed the door with a weary sigh, then methodically fastened each lock—the dead bolt, the knob. Her hand lingered after hooking the chain. “Seems kind of pointless.” His own words came back to haunt him as they seemed to rob her of any sense of security. “There’s always a way to get in, right?”
Ethan straightened from his work. “I’m here. I’m staying. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Her blue eyes sought out his across the room. She nodded. But it wasn’t very convincing. She seemed small and alone and devoid of the fire that had drawn him to her in the first place. She didn’t believe his promise.
He set down his bag and closed the distance between them. As he wrapped her up in his hug, her arms circled behind his waist and she nestled her head beneath his chin. She trembled against him and he held on tight. He buried his nose in the silky cap of her hair and tried to let his body tell her what his words could not. His word was as good as his bond. She was protected. Cared for. Loved. Safe.
She breathed a heavy sigh and relaxed against him. But a moment later, she tensed again and pushed away, as if she’d suddenly remembered a forgotten task. She walked straight to the coat closet and pulled out her vacuum.
“I can handle this mess if you want to go lie down for a while,” Ethan offered.
“Nope.” She pieced together the equipment and plugged it in before adding, “I need to stay busy.”
He could relate to that. More than once, he’d taken a long run or attacked a punching bag in the gym when worries and frustrations threatened to get the better of him. He opted to work beside her in silence, keeping a watchful eye on her as she cleaned the chaise lounge and chair that had sustained most of the damage. He hauled the biggest pieces of glass out to the building’s Dumpster and came back to find her vacuuming the carpet with a vengeance.
