Danger Zone: Tales of Military Passion

by Marie Harte

  “Hell,” Charlotte muttered. “The CDC will send their C team, if anyone at all. The only thing concerning Atlanta right now is Africa.”

  “Right. And by that time, we’d started to build bridges on our own. When we all agreed that this thing somehow hooks into our johnsons by way of our noses—”

  “You thought of my team’s study.”

  “Operation fish spunk. Yeah.”

  She would’ve rolled her eyes if her brain wasn’t already busy trying to slide the facts into each other. “You know we were studying pheromones, not reproduction, right?”

  “I know the difference, Charlotte.” He stopped and braced his stance, his stare now evoking freshly-mined topaz. She wondered how a man could be so derogatory and breathtaking with a single glower. “Pheromones are nature’s fun little version of Agent Orange, the shit that hits your nervous system, taking your will until all you want to do is fight or fuck.” He twined his arms across his chest. “So call it what you want, geek-alicious, spunk was involved.”

  She forced herself to ignore the skip in her heartbeat at his corny new take on the nickname, especially delivered from the pose that made him look like a breathtaking new recruit for the Avengers. She was a firsthand witness to Captain Oh-My-God’s origin story.

  “It was a little more complicated than that,” she finally asserted.

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “It’s what we’re counting on.” There wasn’t a shred of humor, even the blackest, in his declaration. He dropped his arms into strained angles at his sides. “We need to know what you know. All of it, Charlotte. Please.”

  He pounded that in—literally—by whirling and mashing a white-knuckled fist against the wall. For a moment, Charlotte couldn’t move. When she did, she twisted both hands into the sweater, using it as her anchor. Without it, she was certain she’d be on her feet too, using any method she could to soothe the desperation from his face and the tension from his body. “Of—of course,” she finally stammered. “But it was a big undertaking, Kaden. A doctoral project for three of us. We also did a week at the Wild Animal Park, another two with the hawks out at Miramar—”

  “Miramar?” he injected. “What the fuck were you doing with the jarheads out there?”

  They both needed the sarcasm. She gave in to a little laugh from his semi-cute jealousy. “We worked with the birds on the base. We were out in the middle of a field most of the day. We didn’t see many humans except each other.”

  All too quickly, he returned to his tension. Correction: dove into a bath of it. “We’re getting to Code Desperate here. If your research notes don’t give us the key to what we need, I’m not sure we’ll save Trig in time.”

  “Trig?” She repeated it right before recognition hit. “Trigham James? Your buddy? The one—”

  “Yeah. The one your buddy Aimee had a little thing for.”

  Aimee’s “thing” for Trig hadn’t been so little but Kaden didn’t need to know that. She’d always liked Trig, too. The guy was a good balance for Kaden, always ready with a sly smirk and easy drawl when the air got shot up with stress—which, when Kaden was concerned, was often.

  Already knowing she wouldn’t like the answer, she forced out the query, anyway. “Save him from what?”

  Kaden stabbed her with another desolate stare. “I was hoping you’d have the answer to that.”

  He pushed away from the wall only to turn around and slump against it. Again, Charlotte admitted she was transfixed. Watching the man succumb to a second of despair was…jarring. And humbling. Kaden Tiernan might be an arrogant and prideful bastard, but she now saw that translated into being a steadfast friend, too. And when he’d originally been assigned to lead her team’s security detail, he’d been called one of the base’s top MPs. Not being able to unravel this mystery must have been, in his mind, an indefensible way of letting Trig down.

  His despair touched her as deeply as his passion had. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It sounds so lame, but…I am.”

  “It’s all right.” He pushed out a heavy breath. “Trig is just…well, he’s not good. You might say he was our inaugural guinea pig on this shit.”

  “He was the first one infected?”

  He jerked out a nod. With his face in profile to her, Charlotte could see every taut tendon in his neck. “We tried to help him once we figured out what was happening, that somehow his conditions were tied into your fun romp into the wonderful world of pheromones. Once we knew that horse-sized ibuprofen and chicken soup weren’t the key, we went after…alternative treatment.”

  Charlotte sat up straighter. Funny he’d mentioned soup. It was what her thoughts had felt like—until now. Things started to solidify, all right. But like everything else that’d happened this afternoon, the comprehension was a helix of good and bad news. “Alternative treatment. You mean women.”

  “Wasn’t exactly difficult. Trig’s call-sign is Adonis.”

  “No. I don’t imagine it was hard at all.” Her calm tone was a complete sham. As Charlotte leaned forward, bracing elbows on the desk, she watched her fingers shake. Thoughts and logic, whatever those were anymore, collided in her head. She didn’t want to believe what they told her. She was tempted to write off the whole crazy postulation as something she’d blurt after three glasses of cheap wine at happy hour with Aims.

  But she hadn’t had a drink since her comp “Welcome Mai Tai” at the resort. And she couldn’t ignore a larger, unavoidable fact. She was living this postulation, symptom for symptom. Torment for torment. Need for need.

  Oh, yes. Thanks to the last three weeks, the impossible had become very possible.

  And very overwhelming.

  She shook her head. Once. Twice. Then a lot more times.

  “Doc?” Kaden’s query echoed as if from the end of a tunnel, loud but far away. “What is it?”

  The facts pounded harder, demanding she pay attention. “Damn,” she murmured. “It can’t be.”

  “What can’t be? Doc?”

  She lifted her head. Dropped it again.

  Single-receptor pheromone bonds? In humans? Because of exposure to a three year-old experiment on Pacific fish species?

  Why was this happening? How was this happening?

  She looked back up, finally speaking with a serenity she didn’t feel. “Did they work?”

  Kaden’s brow furrowed. “Did what work?”

  “The women. With Trig. Did they help him? Did he get better?”

  “They sure as hell gave it their best efforts. But no.” He shoved from the wall and re-approached the desk. “But that doesn’t surprise you, does it?”

  She longed to swivel the chair to fully face him—but knew where that would lead. New pricks of need already taunted her skin and trickled hot arousal between her thighs. Kaden’s proximity didn’t help. God help her, even four feet away, she could smell every succulent drop of sweat on his skin. She gripped the arms of the chair to keep from stripping, splaying herself across the desk, and begging him to claim her again.

  “No,” she stated. “It’s not surprising at all. Though I wish it were.” A jolt of comprehension suddenly struck. She used the armrests to push to the edge of the seat. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘save him in time?’ Is Trig—” She surged to her feet. “Holy shit. He’s not going to—”

  “Die?” Kaden uttered it when her throat clutched on the word. “At this point, I think Trig would love that option.” He dragged a hand across his head. “But we’re not going to let him have it. We’ve got him safely tucked away at the Fallbrook Psych Institute.” As he lowered his arm, the motion draped more frustration down his features. “Nice, huh? My buddy Trig, who just last month could shoot a pea off a watermelon while head-locking a drunk prick and texting three girls at once, is now restrained in a padded room with four o’clock bingo as the highlight of his day.”

  Charlotte lowered her sights, struggling to process that revelation past the rage that poured off of him. The
stuff wasn’t just tangible but pungent, inciting equal pain through her own system. She yearned to go to him, to ease his conflict by wrapping herself around him, and more. But would she really be helping? His body needed her but that didn’t mean his spirit did, too. Aside from their magical time in each other’s pants, he still called her Doc. The derision had returned to his voice. He’d likely interpret a move of sympathy as a gesture of pity—equivalent to a dagger in the gut to a man like him.

  “Dammit.” He leaned and grabbed the edges of the desk. She watched his knuckles tighten against the wood, going stark white. The tendons in his forearms bulged against his skin. “Dammit.”

  Without another word of warning, he flipped the oak desk on its side.

  Charlotte looked at the mess with an odd sense of wonder. His action had her heart racing and her blood thrumming—though none of it had anything to do with fury or fear. She wanted him again. Wanted. Him. Deeper and harder than they’d had each other before. The comprehension meant big trouble. She now knew how his rage could be flipped to passion inside a second.

  She forced her gaze to stay on the belly-up furniture. Couldn’t even try closing her eyes. She was damn clear on what the effort would yield. She’d remember his hot kisses. His long fingers and their perfect touch. His burnished, nude muscles, taut as he filled her again and again…

  Too late. The craving to touch him bit at her fingers. His scent dominated the air…and conquered her senses. Her pussy pulsed. Her panties were soaked. When Kaden joined his harsh breaths to hers, her lungs synched to match them.

  Stay clear of him, dammit. You know what will happen if you move now.

  Her body protested—violently. She’d never been in such an intense war with herself. One glance at Kaden betrayed his own skirmishes. His body resembled the mast of a schooner in a storm. His lust thickened, tempting Charlotte like the open door of a Godiva shop. She needed him…

  An urgent knock shook the door. Thank God for Aimee and her unknowing, spot-on timing.

  “C! Are you okay? We heard a crash. What’s going on?”

  She coughed hard to clear her throat. “We’re—uhhh—fine. It’s cool, Aims.” She put a hand to her head, dizzy from the effort of keeping the words composed.

  Aimee muttered something about giving this thing fifteen more minutes before calling the cops. Under normal circumstances, Charlotte never would’ve heard it. Perhaps for the first time, she was happy for her semi-superhero senses.

  For better or worse, she looked back up at Kaden. “We’re on borrowed time, Officer Tiernan. We need to focus. Now.”

  He kept his ground. Barely. But dammit, why’d he have to be so stunning about it? His eyes were molten and mesmerizing. His lips, slightly parted, were lush frames for the white of his clenched teeth. And his body…sweet hell. The man was beautifully put together…everywhere.

  Maybe focusing was overrated. Maybe they could just refocus everything tomorrow.

  Right. While Trigham James lay in a psych hospital bed, half-insane with need for—

  What?

  She shook her head. The answer to that wasn’t going to happen. The question itself was an error.

  Trig didn’t need a what. He needed a who.

  But as Kaden had just told her, not just any woman. They’d tried that magic key—well, keys—and nearly broken Trig’s lock because of it. Kaden’s and her experience wasn’t evidence to be denied, either. But she couldn’t voice her theory. Not yet. Two cases didn’t prove a premise. She needed more details.

  That involved talking with Kaden.

  Just talking with him.

  Shit.

  She could do this. At least she hoped she could.

  “Okay.” The syllables shook but she got them out. “You—you said you’re the fourth one on the squad who’s infected?”

  He managed a nod in her general direction.

  “All right. Tell me about the others.”

  He flung out an arm to grip one of her filing cabinets. “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  She had a mini refrigerator in the office. He turned and wrenched its door open. Charlotte didn’t waste the energy to remind him she’d been on vacation and there’d be nothing inside except the ice cube tray in the little freezer, since he discovered it for himself after three seconds. The tray had bays shaped like lips. Aims had given it to her as a prank Christmas gift last year. Kaden didn’t hesitate to yank the thing out, give it a violent twist, and pop the cubes free. In one more efficient move, he tossed them all down the front of his pants.

  As the ice cascaded and tumbled at his feet, the strain eased from his face. Though his breathing was still labored, he was able to square his shoulders and meet her gaze again.

  “Blake Parker started getting bad about a week after Trig,” he explained. “He’s holding his own a little better, probably because he’s seen what’s coming if he doesn’t, but he’s sliding deeper into the crazy each day. We’re trying to make him comfortable, but we stumbled on the fish spunk connection only two weeks ago. Since then, it’s been one big push to figure out who was on board the ship during your study, let alone narrowing the list down to women.” A grimace accompanied his new bump back against the wall. “Contacting them all has been a different adventure.” He mimed holding a phone to his ear. “Hi, Marie? How are you? This is Kade Tiernan. You might remember me? Cute MP from San Diego; we’d joke around at lunch when you were on the Sparta for that interesting little project three years ago? No? That’s weird. Well, you been feeling okay lately? You have? Hmmm. You mind sending me a piece of clothing or a lock of hair, anyway?” His lips pursed on a mock frown. “Uh, Marie? Marie?”

  Charlotte resisted giggling as long as she could. Eventually, the effort was useless. The laughter he induced cranked her craving for him threefold. Still she managed to quip, “Guess you and the dial tone have become good pals.”

  “The best.”

  She tried closing her eyes again. Really dumb idea. All she could think of were his long legs, bracing him against the wall with muscled grace. “So Wick Davis was number three?” She remembered Wick. Who wouldn’t? He was the guy who’d be in the Navy forever, a swaggering sailor with a megawatt smile and a one-liner for every occasion.

  “Yeah. We got damn lucky there, in more ways than one.”

  “How?”

  “Turns out that Wick had made a lunch date with Giselle Monroe, a friendly revisit to ‘the good old times.’”

  “Monroe.” Charlotte mentally sifted for a connection. “I don’t remember her.”

  “You probably won’t. She was with the base police division but she rode a desk, shuffling the paperwork and keeping us dickheads in line. Her duties took her all over the base.”

  “Including trips to the Sparta.”

  His lips briefly quirked. “Especially if Wick was on duty.”

  “Oh.” She understood his intimation but had to derail her thoughts. The crux of his thighs enjoyed a visit from Antarctica but hers was still a mess of fiery need. “S-so what happened at their lunch?”

  His brows arced. The lip quirk returned. “Yeah. The famous lunch. Shit, just thinking of how we almost didn’t let him keep the appointment, either…” The quirk rapidly became a grimace. “We’d be in a much deeper bog of fucked-to-hell, that’s for sure.”

  “You wanted—to hold him back? But—” Cognition finally clicked for her. “Damn. He was infected by the day of the date, wasn’t he?”

  He confirmed her assertion by simply continuing. “He was only a couple of days into the thick of it. And shit, Wick got it bad.” He pushed from the wall and grabbed a chair. After turning it backward then straddling it that way, he went on, “His hearing got hit the worst. Dude could detect a couple of turtles going at it in their rack six decks below us. Of course, that was what he focused on—all the goddamn time.”

  His deprecating eye roll didn’t pass her by. “And you still thought he was a few bolts shy of a working engine.”
>
  “Well, yeah.” He hit a thoughtful pause between the two syllables. “Look, I hadn’t been hit yet. I understood the supersonic senses part, even the strange growth spurts and the Big Foot scalp follicles. But I figured the explanation was chemical warfare. I was certain there’d been some kind of thwarted attack on the base itself that somehow zeroed its way onto our squad.”

  “Would’ve been at the top of my theories, too.”

  His surprise at her affirmation was blatant on his face. It added to a moment of boyish handsomeness, which did not set the stage for his next words. “I just didn’t get it about the hankering for humping.”

  Charlotte choked out a laugh. “Oh, my.”

  “What? I didn’t! You need to understand that I’ve already seen these asshats in a number of situations requiring defined levels of…sustained sturdiness. All of that was a trip through Romper Room compared to their crotch tents after the virus came to play. So yeah, I was worried about Wick’s date with Giselle. Considering the dork’s condition, I didn’t think she’d be safe, so I chaperoned his ass.” He twined his arms together on the back of the chair. “Not that the guy noticed me from the second he sat down with Giselle. Not that they stayed in the restaurant booth that long, either.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened? They got into the same room with each other, finally getting to smell each other, and his hand was up her skirt before the menus got dropped. In less than ten minutes, they were locked in the ladies room, going at it like rabid bunnies.”

  Charlotte crossed her own arms, but used one as support for the other as she raised a thoughtful finger to her lips. “So…exactly what happened to us.”