Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) Read online

  The door swung open and banged against the wall. “Ms. Kincaid!” a shocked voice barked.

  Behind her, Michael jerked as if he’d been shot. Despite the shock, he somehow thought to shift his body to shield her while he yanked her skirt down. Chloe pushed up and turned in time to see Sempler’s beet red face. “My office, Ms. Kincaid.” He spun on his heel and added, “Now.”

  Chapter Five

  Suffocating heat stormed up Chloe’s chest and into her cheeks. She stared at the door and whispered the first words that popped into her mind. “Holy shit. I’m so fired.”

  Michael looked up from fastening his pants. “I’ll go talk to him. Explain—”

  “Explain what?” She groaned and covered her furnace of a face with her hand. “You were delighted to discover your massage included a happy ending?”

  “Chloe—”

  “No.” She held up her hand and shook her head. “Nothing you can do will make this situation better. Please, just go.”

  To make matters worse, her entire nervous system screamed with unfulfilled need. Every move introduced new forms of torture. She took a step toward the door and tripped over something tangled around her ankles. Michael caught her before she toppled like a bowling pin and pulled her back against his chest. “Take a deep breath and give yourself a second.”

  She looked down past his crossed forearms locking her to him and saw her pink underwear dangling at her feet. Shit.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she bent over to remove them, inadvertently nudging her backside into his lap in the process. A pathetic little reminder of her almost orgasm shimmied through her at the contact and she barely resisted the urge to curl up into a fetal position and bawl. Instead she straightened, wadded the panties into her fist, and raised her head.

  “You have to go,” she said, amazed out how steady her voice sounded and walked out of the room.

  …

  Where the hell was she? Michael knocked on Chloe’s door for the hundredth time and frowned at his watch. Eleven thirty and still no sign of her. And dammit, he was worried…and guilty. He shared equal responsibility for what had happened between them this afternoon, but their recklessness would cost her a job. It wouldn’t do much for his career either, if the manager of the clinic decided to report him, but since he hadn’t heard a peep out of Harding, he figured no complaint had been filed…yet. That particular sword still hung over his head, but there was nothing he could do to influence that situation. He didn’t know what, if anything, he could do to fix things for Chloe, but he had a deep-seated need to try…if he could ever figure out where she was.

  Mrs. Waverly walked up with an envelope in her hand. “Hello, Michael. Are you looking for Chloe?”

  “What? Uh…yes.”

  “Ha! Knew it! I figured it was only a matter of time before that girl caught your eye.” The older woman’s white teeth gleamed against her tanned skin as she approached. “She’s a doll. I’m glad she’s making friends. I wish she wasn’t leaving us so soon.”

  Chloe was leaving soon? Did her imminent departure have anything to do with what went down at the clinic this afternoon? He hated to pump Mrs. W for information, but he had a bad feeling about this. “Do you happen to know where she went tonight?”

  “Well, no…but, a pretty young thing like her is probably out on a date. Why, back in my day, I’d a’ been discoing my ass off every night.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “Are you heading out to the disco, then, Mrs. W?”

  She laughed her rusty chainsaw laugh. “God bless you, no. I had dinner and went to a movie with some of the bunco girls, including Loretta. They’re downstairs at my place, finishing off the after-movie cheesecake. Want me to say hi for you?”

  Loretta was Mrs. W’s best friend, and his CO’s wife. With nothing but the offhand offer, Mrs. W had just reminded him of the short distance between his personal life and his job. “Sure Mrs. W. Have fun.”

  “You too, Michael. Have a nice night.” She stuck the plain, white envelope under Chloe’s door and then went down the hall toward the stairs.

  He ran a hand through his hair and turned back to his apartment. Where would you go if you just got fired? He’d never been in the situation, but something told him he’d want a drink. Around here, that generally meant the Stars & Bars Roadhouse. He grabbed his keys and headed downstairs to the carports, not missing the fact that his back didn’t bother him at all. The realization compounded his guilt. She’d healed his back, and his ego, and he’d gotten her canned.

  The drive to the Stars & Bars took no time, but parking proved more of a challenge. The place drew a crowd on Thursday nights—mostly young marines and a decent sprinkling of girls from San Clemente and surrounding communities to keep the GIs’ hopes up. Tonight the warm breeze and clear, starry sky had them spilling out onto the raised porch spanning the front of the wood-shingled structure. The crowd didn’t hinder his ability to spot Chloe at twenty paces. Her hair glowed like copper under the porch lights. She perched on the porch rail, holding a margarita, and gesturing sloppily at some grunt whose puffed up chest and perma-smile clearly said he couldn’t believe his luck.

  Michael walked over until he stood directly below her. “Hello, Chloe.”

  She swiveled her head to look down at him. Her body swayed perilously. “Major Hottieeee! Hey. Long time no see. D’you know Dillon?” She splashed her margarita at the young, clean-shaved marine standing beside her. “Dillon from Amadillo. Texas born, jus like me.”

  Dillon blushed and nodded. “Amarillo, sir.”

  “Tha’s what I said. Call him Armadillon, ’cause, look.” She reached out and knocked her knuckles against the kid’s abs. “Hard. Just like an armadirro…an amarilla…an armadillo—whew,” she rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed, “I shudda tested that one out before I used it in a sentence…oooh, look at all the stars out tonight.”

  A light breeze ruffled the hem of her white skirt, so it fluttered around her dangling legs. To call her “trashed” would be an understatement. She couldn’t focus for shit. She slurred her words, and she was about two minutes from passing out, throwing up, or both. “Chloe,” he said quietly and waited until her spinning eyes made a long, meandering circuit back to him. “You’re headed for a fall here. You plan to take that kid down with you”—he pointed at Armadillon—“or are you going to let a man catch you?”

  “Sir?”

  “No offense,” he added and braced as she teetered.

  “I’m fiiiiine,” she insisted, throwing an arm out expansively, splashing him with her drink in the process. Then she overbalanced. Armadillon dropped his beer and made a grab for her, but came up short. She toppled and fell directly into Michael’s waiting arms. His back barely complained about the sudden burden of a hundred and ten pounds of dead weight, and he figured he had her to thank for that little miracle.

  “Nice sa-save,” she hiccupped.

  “Saving you seems to be my new habit.”

  She looked up at him and her hands found his shoulders. “You’re hard, too.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He set her on her feet, keeping an arm around her waist, and discretely adjusted the neckline of her slinky little sweater so her bra wasn’t peeking out.

  “Do I owe you another kis—” She hiccupped again. “Another ki—uh-oh.” She turned away and stumbled out of his hold.

  He caught her around the waist from behind and pulled her hair back. “I’ll take a rain check.”

  She nodded and proceeded to fertilize the grass with what had to be half a pitcher of margaritas.

  “She’s all yours, sir,” Armadillon said, but had the grace to look sheepish as he handed Michael her purse.

  Suitcase, he mentally corrected when he took the large, brightly patterned bag and slung it over his shoulder. He had no idea what she carried in there—and he didn’t want to know—but he’d hefted combat rucks that weighed less.

  Chloe moaned and sagged against
him. He gathered her up, ignoring the guilty weight in his chest when she turned her pale, sweaty face into his shirt. “Sorry.”

  “No sorry necessary.”

  She gave him a weary, half smile, but her eyelids drooped.

  “Say good night, Chloe.”

  “G’nite, Chloe,” she mumbled and passed out.

  Michael drove back to Casa Clemente with Chloe’s soft breathing as the only soundtrack to the otherwise-quiet night. He parked and came around to the passenger side of the Jeep to assess his options. He opened the door and unhooked her seat belt. No reaction.

  “Chloe,” he said, and shook her shoulder. Still nothing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and then ran his hand over his head and along the back of his neck. His back felt better than it had in three weeks, but, while it galled him to admit it, he doubted the healing disc would tolerate him carrying her up the stairs like a bride. Over his shoulder would be safer. What it lacked in romance it more than made up for in the reduced likelihood of him dumping her on her ass if his back failed. Carrying her like that also left him with a hand free to grab the rail and stabilize, if necessary. He knelt down in front of the open door, settled her over his right shoulder, and was about to take her full weight when he heard her groan.

  “Relax. I’ve got you.”

  She must have opened her eyes and figured out what he had in mind, because she pulled away. “Don’t…your back.”

  He looked at her wide, dilated pupils and the way she held onto the dash even though she was sitting in an unmoving vehicle. “I’m good—it’s you I’m not so sure about.” With that, he took her arm, leaned his shoulder into her middle, and lifted her out of the Jeep. He clamped his right arm around her hips while her fingers tangled in his beltloops.

  “I can walk!”

  “Oh, come on. Let me play the hero a little longer.” He kicked the car door shut and took a step toward the stairwell, giving her a little bounce in the process to adjust her weight to a more even distribution. He could handle this. No problem.

  “Michael…” His name sounded sort of choked. “…don’t want to throw up all over you.”

  Okay, slight problem. He stopped. “Are you serious?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He loosened his arm from around her waist and slowly lowered her to her feet, holding back a groan when her soft curves slid over him. She staggered a little and put her hand on his chest for balance, then blinked up at him and took several deep breaths.

  “Better?”

  “Mucho.” She let go of his chest, and offered him a sloppy smile when her balance held.

  “Awesome. Ready for some stairs?”

  Her expression firmed into one of extreme determination, more appropriate to Mount Everest than Casa Clemente. They made it up to his apartment without him doing much more than occasionally steering her back on track. She paused at her door and looked at her left side, then her right, and then at him.

  “Your purse is in the car.” He unlocked his door and held it open. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in my place and I’ll go get it.” He wasn’t letting her out of his sight until she’d downed a Gatorade and a couple painkillers, and kept them down.

  “’Kay. Mind if I use your potty?”

  He pointed to the hall. “First door on your right.”

  While she took care of business, he got a sports drink from the fridge, sat on the couch, and waited. And waited. He gave it five minutes and then took the drink, walked down the hall, and tapped on the bathroom door.

  “Chloe?”

  Chapter Six

  A muffled moan came from the other side of the door.

  Ah, hell. Michael turned the knob. It gave. He opened the door and found Chloe curled up on the floor with her forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. “I wish your bathroom would stop spinning.”

  He reached into the medicine cabinet and shook two ibuprofen tablets into his palm. Then he crouched beside her and rubbed her back. “Sorry. I should have warned you. When you drink too much, my toilet turns into a teacup ride. Open your eyes. That will help.”

  She smiled weakly and fought one bloodshot eye open to stare at him. He held out the ibuprofen. “Full recovery is a three step process. Step one—the magic pills.”

  “Thank you.” She let go of the toilet, sat straighter, and reached for the painkillers with the slow, carefully executed movements of someone with severely impaired reflexes.

  Her fingers brushed his palm as she took the pills, and he flashed back to that afternoon, at the clinic, feeling those fingers of hers running all over his shoulders and back. An instant twitch in his shorts told him there was nothing impaired about his reflexes.

  “Step two—wash them down with the magic green juice.” He handed her the sports drink he’d placed on the counter.

  “Uh-uh,” she groaned. “One sip of that stuff and I’ll hurl for sure.”

  “Nah. I’ve put the magic green juice to the test more times than I care to count, and it never lets me down. Plus, it’s loaded with electrolytes. You need them.”

  She looked at him as if he was asking her to swallow live cockroaches with bilge water, but tossed the pills in her mouth, chased them with a swig of the Gatorade, and made a face. “God, that’s nasty.”

  He fought a smile and lost. On top of margaritas and stomach acid, it probably fell short of the refreshing lemon-lime citrus splash the bottle promised. Feeling for her, he reached out and brushed her hair off her forehead. “Drink half and I’ll backfill the bottle with water.”

  She took another big gulp and swallowed before answering, “What’s step three?”

  “Step three is the most magical step of all.” He dug into the drawer below the sink, withdrew his hand with a flourish, and handed her a new toothbrush, still in the box. “Toothpaste is on the counter.”

  Those beautiful, pink lips curved into a grateful smile as she accepted the toothbrush. “I love you.”

  The words came out soft and heartfelt, which he knew was part of the joke. But in his imagination, he heard her saying the phrase again, in a breathless, husky voice as he emptied himself inside her.

  Disconcerted by the detour his brain took, he forced a laugh. “Yeah, I know all about your kind of love.” But now he had the image of them stuck in his head—her writhing under him, panting his name—and a completely out-of-line hard-on that wouldn’t back down. Time for a little more distance than his bathroom afforded. He stood, held out a hand, and pulled her to her feet. The forward momentum caused her to bump into him, and the slight impact of her breasts against his chest sent his dick surging. Still playing with fire, McCade.

  One glance at her face settled him a little, because she was clearly fighting just to keep her eyes open. While he watched she yawned and rubbed the heel of her hand over her forehead.

  “Brush up, drink some more of that,” he pointed to the Gatorade, “and make yourself at home. I’ll get your purse. Be right back.”

  Her “Thank you,” followed him out of the bathroom.

  It only took a few minutes to retrieve her bag, but total silence greeted him when he entered the apartment.

  “Chloe?”

  She didn’t reply. He dropped her purse on the counter and absently rolled his shoulder as he stepped past the kitchen and dining area, and into the hall. A few steps later, he saw her—sacked out on his bed. Good girl, he thought when he spotted the empty bottle of Gatorade sitting on his nightstand.

  He pushed the door all the way open and walked in. She laid on her side, facing the door, her amber-honey curls curtaining her face. She’d folded her right arm across her chest, pushing her breasts together so they swelled above the neckline of her top. Her long, white skirt twisted around her, exposing smooth, tanned legs. If he’d been a painter, he would have pulled out his easel and brushes, captured her in oils, and called it, “Venus Sleeping Off a Rough Night.”

  Instead he touched her shoulder. “Chloe.”


  Her only answer was a light snore. Well, shit. Talk about playing with fire. Still, he’d been trained to answer when duty called, no matter how steep the personal sacrifice. He slipped her shoes off and resisted the temptation to run his hands along her arches, up her calves, and…focus on the mission, marine.

  Right. Her clothes were a little worse for wear, but he could probably let her sleep in her skirt and sweater. Even as the thought went through his head, she flopped onto her back. The long, flowy skirt tangled around her, and, with a frustrated sound, she kicked in an effort to free her legs. Okay, fine. He’d help her out of her skirt, go take a cold shower, and bed down in the second bedroom he used as an office.

  Luckily, the skirt had a stretchy waist so he didn’t have to turn her every which way trying to find clasps and zippers and whatnot. He simply curled his fingers under the waistband and pulled it down and off. She woke up enough to help him by raising her hips and then settled back against the bed, with one arm flung over her head and the other across her stomach, wearing just her formfitting top, and the pink thong forever etched in his memory from their afternoon encounter at the massage clinic. She made another aggrieved sound, and, before he could figure out what was disturbing her, she wrestled her sweater and bra over her head. He caught the flash and sway of her perfect breasts, and then she turned onto her stomach, drew one leg up, and snugged into the bed. The sweater and bra tangled around her arm like a bulky bracelet, but he barely noticed because he couldn’t seem to tear his attention away from the hummingbird.

  The longest, coldest shower in the world wouldn’t fix this. New plan. He tugged the sweater and bra off her arm, carried her clothes to the laundry closet in his hall, and dumped them in the washer. After adding some detergent, he set the thing to go and walked back to his bedroom. The tattoo greeted him like a colorful sentinel, taunting him with everything he couldn’t see, and definitely couldn’t touch.

  A quick dig through his dresser drawer produced a clean T-shirt. She was a head shorter than him and half his weight. The damn thing would cover her like a tent.