A Marine for Christmas

by Beth Andrews

  Twenty minutes later, J.C. wondered which of them of them was the bigger idiot. Him for thinking he could walk the ten miles home on crutches. Or her for leaving her sister’s wedding to give him a ride, all because she still hadn’t gotten over her stupid, childhood crush.

  Her. Definitely her. She’d not only driven him, but helped him inside and onto the couch and even made coffee.

  She frowned as it dripped into the pot. Well, wasn’t that what people did when they cared about someone?

  Carrying a cup of coffee, she made her way to the living room where Brady was slumped on the couch, his head resting against the back of it, his left leg out straight.

  “I thought you could use this,” she said, holding the mug out as she sat next to him. When he made no move to take it, she put it on the coffee table and then clasped her hands together in her lap.

  Other than to tell her he was staying at the cottage on The Diamond Dust, the historic plantation the Sheppards called home, he’d remained silent on the drive over. So there she was, in the middle of the woods in a sparsely furnished living room with her sister’s stoic, drunk ex.

  Finally she cleared her throat and made a move to leave. “I’d better get going.”

  Nothing. No “Thanks for getting me home.” The man didn’t even blink. She’d taken one step toward the front door when his gravelly voice stopped her.

  “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He finally sat up and took a long gulp of coffee. Stared down at the mug. “I didn’t go there to hurt her.”

  Her heart racing, she retook her seat. “Why did you do it then?”

  “I had to see.”

  “Had to see what?”

  He set his coffee down then rolled his head from side to side. “I had to see it happen. Had to watch her marry someone else. So I’d know it was real. And that it really is over between us.”

  She laid her hand on his forearm. “Brady, I…I’m so sorry.”

  He looked down at her hand then up at her face, his gaze hooded. “You’re still as sweet as you always were, aren’t you, Jane?” he murmured.

  His tone was low and dark. Dangerous. Gooseflesh rose on her bare arms. “I…I hate that you’re…” In pain. Broken. Unable to see beyond Liz. “That you have to go through this.”

  He shifted, his knee bumping hers. She slid over several inches. But…was it her imagination, or did he keep getting closer?

  “Like I said, sweet.” He skimmed the tip of his forefinger down her cheek.

  She sat motionless, her mouth dry as he cupped the back of her head. Then he tugged her head down and kissed her, his lips brushing hers once. Then again. The third time, he slowly deepened the kiss, his lips warm and firm, the rough pad of his thumb caressing her jaw. His tongue slipped between her lips, coaxing a response.

  He eased back, his eyes searching hers. “Okay?” he asked softly.

  She exhaled shakily. Was it okay? She’d dreamt of this, of him touching her, kissing her…wanting her…her entire life. Almost as long as she’d loved him.

  Ignoring all the reasons why they couldn’t do this, she pressed her mouth to his.

  Brady groaned and speared his fingers into her hair, scattering bobby pins across the couch. When his other hand cupped her breast through the silk of her gown, she almost jumped out of her skin. But then he lightly pinched her nipple and she arched her back, fitting herself more fully into his palm.

  Willing herself to relax, she tentatively smoothed her palms over the hard contours of his chest up to his shoulders. He lifted his head long enough to strip his shirt off, tossing it behind him before kissing her again. She couldn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t believe she really was touching him. He was so beautiful, his body lean but muscular. His skin soft. And hot.

  Still kissing her, he grabbed hold of her underneath her thighs, tugging her down until she lay flat on her back. Lifting her dress, he swept his hand up to her hipbone, leaving trails of warmth in his wake. He parted her legs and lightly stroked her through her panties. She squirmed. Her thigh muscles clenched.

  Before she could raise her hips in a silent demand for him to touch her harder, he pulled her panties down, leaving them around her ankles. Then he lifted his mouth from hers so he could unfasten and shove down his jeans. Her head was still spinning as Brady thrust her dress up around her waist. Cool air washed over her.

  Slow down. She brought her legs together. And for the first time, she noticed Brady’s features etched in pain.

  “Your knee,” she said. “Are you—”

  He kissed her again. Settled on top of her, spreading her legs insistently, keeping most of his weight on his right side. And then he was at her entrance. Hot. Hard.

  He didn’t return her feelings. But she couldn’t refuse him.

  He pushed into her, his thickness stretching her. He gave her a moment to adjust to his size. His hardness. Then he took her hips in a viselike grip and began to move.

  Unlike her fantasies, there were no tender words. No lingering looks. None of the fireworks she’d imagined. There was no connection between them other than the joining of their bodies.

  Oh, God. She’d made a huge mistake.

  Her throat burning, she stared up into his handsome face, her hands clutching the cushion beneath her. His mouth was a thin line, the hair at his temples damp with sweat. And no matter how hard she silently willed him to, he never once opened his eyes.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his pace quickened and his body grew taut. Emptying himself inside her, he gave a guttural growl.

  And called out her sister’s name.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three months later

  SEVEN O’CLOCK in the morning—on Thanksgiving, no less—was way too early to start throwing up.

  Bent over the porch rail, J.C. wiped a shaky, gloved hand over her mouth. Wrinkling her nose at the bushes below her, she straightened. At least she hadn’t thrown up in her car. Again.

  Her stomach still churning, she crossed Brady’s porch and pounded on the door before digging into the pocket of her bulky coat for a mint. She would not freak out. She could handle this. And once Brady knew, he’d help her. He’d figure out what to do.

  But first he had to answer the damn door.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she scanned the surrounding woods. A blanket of damp leaves covered the forest floor and not even the sun shining in a gorgeous blue sky could pierce the darkness of the trees. She’d parked behind Brady’s silver pickup, so it stood to reason that if his truck was here, he was here.

  She rattled the doorknob—only to have it turn easily in her hand. She blinked, then slipped inside and shut the door. “Hello? Brady? It’s me. J.C.”

  The living-room blinds were drawn, but she had no trouble making out the shape of the cream sofa. The sofa where what should’ve been her dream come true had turned into her greatest nightmare.

  The blinds to her right were drawn, but sunlight shone through the tiny window above the kitchen sink. She crept through the small foyer toward it but stopped at the doorway.

  The cottage had seemed sterile, just-moved-into, when she’d last been there three months ago. But now the kitchen was a mess. And not your ordinary, didn’t-do-the-dishes-last-night-and-left-the-empty-milk-carton-on-the-counter mess she often made in her own apartment. Dirty dishes were piled high in both sides of the sink and took up half the counter space. Garbage overflowed from the bin in the corner and crumbs littered the hardwood floor. Cupboard doors hung open as if someone had ransacked the place. And it would take a jackhammer to chisel through the food on the stovetop.

  And she didn’t even want to know what that awful smell was. Covering her nose and mouth with her arm, she ducked her head and rushed down the hallway, careful not to brush up against anything lest she risk some sort of infectious disease.

  “Brady,” she called again as she passed the small bathroom, her eyes straight ahead. A
fter the horror of that kitchen, you couldn’t pay her to look in the man’s bathroom. At least, not without some sort of Hazmat suit on. She stopped at the closed door to his bedroom and knocked. “Brady, are you up?”

  No answer. She twisted the silver stud in her left earlobe. She’d already let herself into the house, no sense stopping now. She opened the door but couldn’t see a thing. Did he have something against mornings? Or just sunlight in general? She found the light switch and flipped it on.

  The bedroom was as messy as the kitchen, minus any decaying food or garbage. Clothes were tossed on top of and all around the three-drawer dresser. A sock hung from a hardback chair in the corner and a lamp lay on its side on the carpet next to the bed, where a large lump snuffled softly and then began to snore.

  She stepped hesitantly into the room. “Brady,” she whispered. He continued snoring. With the toe of her sneaker, she nudged a white T-shirt out of her way, then stepped over a pair of dark boxer briefs to the head of the bed.

  She picked up an open bottle of whiskey from the nightstand and wasn’t sure if she should be relieved it was still half-full. Finding the cap behind a digital clock that blinked twelve, she screwed it on.

  Brady slept on his stomach, his long body stretched diagonally across the bed. A sheet covered him from the waist down, leaving his naked back and one bent leg exposed. His shoulders were broad, the lean muscles clearly defined. He had a black vine tattoo that started at his right hip, wound its way over his back and up to his shoulder before curling out of sight. His right arm hung limply off the side of the bed, his left held a pillow over his head.

  Too bad or she might have poured the rest of the whiskey over his face.

  “Brady.” Nothing. If not for his soft snores, she’d think he was comatose. “Wake up.”

  Other than a twitch of his toes, he didn’t move. Holding the whiskey bottle by the neck, she nudged his shoulder with the bottom of it. “Wake—”

  Brady’s hand shot out and grabbed the bottle, tossing it onto the bed at the same time he wrenched her forward. Before she could so much as open her mouth to scream, he flipped her onto her back and pinned her to the mattress, his muscular thighs straddling her hips.

  His large, strong hand was around her throat.

  Panic shot through her as his fingers tightened, cutting off her airway. She bucked wildly underneath him, clawing at his wrists, but she may as well have been fighting a statue. The wild tangle of his shaggy, wheat-colored hair and the darker stubble on his cheeks and chin sharpened the already sharp lines of his handsome face. His blue eyes were like ice chips, cold and empty.

  “Brady…stop…it’s me,” she managed to spit out, though it hurt to talk. To breathe. “Jane Cleo. Please…”

  He blinked, and his hold on her loosened. Realization flashed across his face and he leapt off her to the other side of the room. She rolled onto her side as she gasped for breath.

  “Damn it, J.C.! What the hell are you doing?” Brady demanded, the hint of Southern accent doing nothing to soften his harsh, sleep-roughened voice. “I could’ve killed you.”

  “I…I was trying to wake you,” she rasped.

  He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “How did you even get in here?”

  Her arms shaking, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, keeping her gaze off his naked body. “The door was unlocked.”

  “That didn’t give you the right to come in.”

  “No. Of course not. But I wanted…”

  “What? A repeat of the last time you were here?” he asked, then gave one quick shake of his head. “Not interested.”

  Tears stung her eyes, made her already sore throat burn. “I didn’t come here for a repeat of anything, you bastard,” she said fiercely, her hands gripping the crumpled sheet. “I came to tell you I’m pregnant.”

  BRADY REARED BACK, hitting his already spinning head against the wall behind him with a dull thud and jolt of pain. “What?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Oh, shit. He swallowed, but his tongue felt as if it were wearing a fur coat. “How?”

  “The usual way.”

  “Who?”

  She struggled to her feet, her arms crossed against a coat bright enough to burn his retinas. “A traveling salesman,” she snapped. “Who do you think?”

  That was the problem. He couldn’t think. Not with his head pounding. And a panic unlike he’d ever felt crawling up his spine.

  He stared at her stomach, but her coat was too bulky to discern any changes in her body. “Are you sure?”

  She threw a sandwich bag at him, hitting him in the chest. “See for yourself.”

  Shoving his hand through his hair, he frowned down at the bag where it’d landed by his feet. “What are those?”

  “The pregnancy test I took last night, along with the two I took this morning. You’ll notice every last one of them has a stupid plus sign.”

  He dropped his hand, hitting his bare thigh. And realized she’d literally caught him with his pants down. Searching for and finding a pair of gym shorts, he jerked them on, ignoring the throbbing in his bad knee. He took a deep breath and held it for the count of five.

  “No,” he growled. “Are you sure it’s mine?”

  She bristled, reminding him of some mortally offended, overgrown Shirley Temple impersonator with her round face and her frizzy curls smooshed down by an ugly, piss-colored hat. “Of course I am.”

  And with those words, any hope he might’ve had that he hadn’t royally screwed up yet again flew out the window. Just proved how useless and cruel hope could be.

  Instead of kicking a hole in the wall like he wanted to, he shrugged. With his bad leg, he probably couldn’t do much damage anyway. “Can’t blame me for asking.”

  But the look she gave him said she not only could blame him, but likely would for a hellishly long time.

  He worked to not limp as he crossed to the bed. Told himself it didn’t bother him when she darted away like a rabbit. His stomach roiled from not having anything in it other than the Jim Beam he’d downed last night.

  The idea of having a kid should make him feel something besides disappointment. Even the angry red marks on J.C.’s slender throat, the marks he’d put there, should make him feel something. Guilt, at least. But to feel guilty about any of it would mean he’d have to have some semblance of conscience, of humanity, left.

  Sitting on the bed, he reached back for the Jim Beam before picking up a spotted water glass with smudged lipstick on the rim from the floor.

  “Do you think that’s going to help?” J.C. asked, disgusted.

  He flicked her a glance, then poured two healthy shots into the glass. “Can’t hurt.”

  She made a sound, sort of like his mother’s teakettle right before it starting whistling. But thankfully, she kept her mouth shut. He gulped his drink, savoring the burn as it hit the back of his tongue.

  He carefully stretched his left leg out in front of him. And noticed J.C.’s eyes lock on the webbing of scars. The raised, white welts were from the shrapnel when the roadside bomb had gone off. The thinner lines were from the two surgeries he’d endured only to be told his leg would never be one hundred percent.

  His fingers tensed on his glass and he debated risking another death glare from J.C. to get a second shot. As if the pain and stiffness could let him forget he wasn’t whole anymore, the scars reminded him.

  As did the pity in people’s eyes.

  Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he worked to keep his expression bland.

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  He scratched the side of his head. Realized he never did make it to that barber appointment his mother had set up for him last week. Or had it been two weeks ago? “Can’t think of anything.”

  Her mouth popped open. “You can’t think of anything?” she repeated, her voice ris
ing. “Don’t you think we should discuss this?”

  “Seems a little late for that.”

  “But what are we going to do?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  She stepped back, her hand to her heart. “Me? Don’t you have an opinion?”

  He turned his attention to pouring more whiskey into his glass. “Your body. Your decision.”

  “I am not having an abortion, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Underneath the slight tremble in her voice was a determination that he’d never before heard from Jane Cleo.

  “Like I said, your decision.”

  Whipping her hat off, she crushed it in her hand, her hair poofing out around her head as if it had a life of its own. “But what are we going to do now?”

  He drained his glass as he stood. “I’m not sure about you, but I’m going to hit the head and then go back to sleep.”

  She blocked his exit. “That’s it? You don’t have any reaction to the fact that you’re going to be a father?”

  His skin grew clammy. “I’m not going to be a father.”

  “I told you,” she said, speaking through her teeth, “I’m sure it’s yours.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” His memory of what had happened between them was blurry at best, but he knew she was telling the truth. Even if he’d spent the past few months pretending that night had never happened. That he hadn’t taken advantage of J.C. That he hadn’t slept with Liz’s sister.

  That Liz hadn’t married someone else.

  But that didn’t mean he was going to saddle some poor kid with him as a father. And he sure as hell didn’t need the added responsibility of a child. Especially when Liz wasn’t the mother.

  “What I mean is,” he continued, “I don’t plan on being a father. Not to your baby or any other kid.”

  “You want me to handle this alone?”

  He slammed the bottle down on the nightstand. She flinched. “What do you want from me?” he growled. “You can’t show up here, wake me up and throw something this huge in my face and expect me to take care of it. To take care of you. Because if that’s what you expected, you’re talking to the wrong man.”