“Try not to sound so enthusiastic. Listen, you need to get your mind off your shit for a night. Want me to call the stacked, blonde receptionist and see if she’d got a friend?”
The notion of dragging his aching body downstairs, sitting in a bar or restaurant for three hours, and then dragging his sorry ass back up the stairs sounded like a level of hell he preferred to leave unexplored.
“Absolutely not.” Then, realizing he sounded exactly like the whiny little bitch Dane accused him of being, he added, “But thanks. I appreciate the offer, and I appreciate you keeping alive my shot at getting back into the cockpit. You’re my hero. Good luck with the blonde.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it. I have unique insight into the—”
Michael laughed and disconnected.
He took the last step and then paused on the landing to let his protesting back settle. His arm shook a little as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. Shit, he might have to break down and take a pain pill tonight. He’d avoided using the Vicoprofen because, while the anti-inflammatory might help reduce the swelling in his herniated disc, and the narcotic might help him get some sleep, he definitely wouldn’t be cleared to fly while he took the drug.
Still, the prospect of a few pain-free hours and some actual sleep tempted—
“Help!”
He jolted upright, which necessitated stifling a cry of his own, and turned in the direction of the very loud, very female distress call. What the hell? The call sounded as if it came from the apartment across the hall from his. Mrs. W had mentioned an incoming tenant, but he’d yet to set eyes on Casa Clemente’s newest resident. The cry for help sounded again—not the raw, strained voice of someone in pain, but clearly someone in need of assistance. He hurried to the door.
“Hello,” he yelled, and then, thinking a woman, alone in an apartment, calling for help might appreciate some reassurance, he added, “This is Marine Corps Major Michael McCade from 2B. Do you need assistance?”
“Um…yes. I don’t suppose the lady who lives in 2C is around?”
Was it embarrassment or calculation he heard in her hesitation? He frowned. 2C’s husband was on a six-month float. According to Mrs. W, 2C spent most of her time at her boyfriend’s place in Oceanside.
“No. I’m the only one here. Look, did you need help or—”
“Yes! Yes…I do.”
He waited for her to say something more or to open the door. Neither happened. Somehow, he resisted the urge to smack his forehead against the doorframe in an attempt to knock some sense into himself for getting involved with what appeared to be a crazy neighbor, when all he really wanted was a double bourbon, dinner, and bed…in that order.
“Okay, then. This is just a suggestion, but I’m thinking a good place to start would be for you to answer the door so we don’t have to continue yelling through it.”
“That’s part of the problem. I can’t. I’m a bit…limited…at the moment.”
Well, shit. Casa Clemente was no fortress, but the thought of kicking the door in made his eyes want to roll back in his head. His sciatic nerve promptly vetoed the idea. “Ma’am, would you like me to call 9-1-1 for you?”
Her, “No!” practically ruptured his eardrums. “No, no,” she added in a calmer voice, and then laughed nervously. “That would cause a scene and be really…um…unnecessary. The door is unlocked. If you wouldn’t mind coming in, I promise, it’s completely safe.”
Now his eyes narrowed. This sounded weird. The last time something had sounded weird to him, his chopper’s rotor had failed, he’d managed a bumpy emergency landing and hauled a bunch of banged-up infantry troops to safety. The only lasting injury, thankfully, appeared to have been his back. Still, lesson learned. Avoid weird. “What’s your situation, ma’am?”
“My name’s Chloe Kincaid, and my situation, as you put it, is a little hard to explain. Can you just come in?” A note of desperation crept into her voice. “Please?”
The “please” got to him. “All right. I’m coming.” He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Great. And, ah…ignore all the—”
“Candles?” It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, illuminated only by candles burning in little groups throughout the living room. He got a vague impression of colorful throw pillows and a fuzzy burgundy blanket on the back of the standard-issue, Casa Clemente “leather” sofa. He took a step into the apartment and something crunched under his boots. What the…? He squinted at the speckled brown Berber. A trail of small, foil squares led from the front door, across the living room, and down the hall toward what he presumed to be the bedroom. “Or is it the condoms you want me to ignore?”
“Both,” replied the slightly breathless, slightly exasperated, and—maybe this was his imagination working overtime—incredibly sexy voice. Was the voice coming from the bedroom?
“I’m back here.”
Oh yeah, definitely the bedroom. He revised his earlier assessment from “weird” to “intriguing.” A wedge of light shone through a not-quite-closed door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open, walked in, and found…holy shit…Victoria’s Secret handcuffed to the bed, under a Happy Birthday banner.
“I hate to tell you this, but it’s not my birthday. Do I still get the present?”
Chapter Two
“I’m kind of hoping you’ll settle for a beer,” the husky-voiced strawberry-blonde temptation replied. In addition to the handcuffs and two wisps of black lace not very well concealed by the pillow she hugged to herself, she wore a bright pink blush and a pained expression. Sky-wide gray eyes looked at him with a combination of relief and wariness. The vulnerability of her position hit him like a two-by-four. He could be anyone, and his intentions could be far from noble. Under the circumstances, he was glad to be wearing his fatigues, which had his last name stitched across his chest pocket and his rank insignia pinned to his collar. Hopefully it conveyed the message I’m one of the good guys. You can trust me.