Major Attraction (21 page)

Ethan nodded, reaching for his door. “I'll walk you up.”

“No, you won't. If he's in surgery now, you need to hit the road. I think I can find my way upstairs by myself from here.”

He grabbed her arm and stopped her from climbing out the door. His tone was as firm as his grip. “I will see you to your door, check your apartment and make sure everything's locked up tight before I leave you here alone. You may have forgotten about those threats you received, but I haven't.”

“I assure you, I haven't forgotten, either. But don't worry. I promise I'll be careful.”

“If you want me to leave with a clear conscience…”

“All right, then.” She could see she wasn't going to win this argument, so she conceded. “But let's hurry.”

With his guiding hand at the small of her back each step of the way, Ethan walked her up the stairs. Then he warned her to stay put while he inspected every corner of her apartment, from testing the security of the boarded up window to looking under her bed and behind the shower curtain. He verified that her answering machine was empty, and laid a business card with his cell and office numbers right beside the phone.

“Time's wasting,” she urged him as he propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the main room again.

Though his body was primed for action, his eyes were dark with regret. “I was looking forward to spending the night.”

“Me, too.” She walked over to him, braced her hands on his chest and rose up on tiptoe to kiss him. His head bobbed after hers, wanting to linger when she quickly pulled away. She slipped her hands down to fold around his, and led him toward the door. “Stop by when you get back. Take all the time you need for your family, of course.”

He dipped his mouth and claimed her lips again. “You'll be my first stop, I promise. And call me if some
thing happens. If you get another message, anything. All right?”

“I'll be fine. Now go.”

He looked hard into her eyes, demanding guarantees. “I mean it, Jo. I'm not bailing on you. On us. If you need something, you call.”

She smoothed the front of his shirt, let her palm rest against the powerful beat of his heart. “Your brother's your priority right now. I can take care of myself.”

He tipped his face to the ceiling and muttered a curse. He faced her again, the tension in him radiating with such force that she snatched her hand away. “I wish you'd stop saying that. It makes it sound as if you want to be alone.”

“I just want to reassure you so you don't worry about me. I'll keep all my doors locked.” An inevitable tension of another kind sparked between them, but J.C. chose to ignore it. “Call me when you find out about your brother's status.”

“I will.” Ethan stroked her cheek, brushed his fingers across her lips, feeling the same yin and yang of duty and desire calling them in different directions. “And I'll be back. I want you to believe that.”

She pulled his tantalizing fingers away before she gave in to the answering heat spiraling through her and did something totally foolish and poorly timed. “Go. Hopefully Travis is out of surgery now and cursing the fact you're not there to see him.”

“Yeah.”

And then his arms were around her, his fingers tangled in her hair. Her back was against the door and her hips were crushed beneath his. Ethan's mouth covered hers in a hungry, helpless, desperate kiss that felt like a bigger goodbye than it should have. J.C. held on and poured out her love, her compassion. Her regret.

Their lips smacked when he abruptly ended the kiss. He stepped back, holding up his hands as if warding off temptation itself. “I have to go.”

“I know.” J.C. held on to the doorknob, wondering if her weak knees and fearful heart could sustain her. “Drive safely. Give your family my best. Don't worry about me.”

“I'm coming back,” he reiterated, opening the door and backing out into the hallway. He waited on the other side until she'd fastened all three locks. “I'm coming back.”

And then he was gone.

F
EELING THE SAME
vague sense of loss she used to feel whenever her father left for his next Naval appointment, J.C. returned to work the next day and buried herself in the stack of e-mails waiting for her. The readers who'd gone to her Web site loved her or hated her, but there was certainly no shortage of questions and opinions for Dr. Cyn to address.

That had kept her busy all morning. But as evening approached, she was running out of work to keep her mind off Ethan.

With no word yet from him regarding his brother's injuries, she worried that the damage was more severe than his father had reported. The surgery had failed or, God forbid, Travis had died. Alive or dead, healthy or crippled, there would be a lot to deal with. And for a man like Ethan, who liked to maintain control, it would be a hellish vigil to keep. She wanted to call him, just to see that he was okay.

But his mother's diamond ring, winking in the fluorescent office lights as she typed the final paragraphs of her next column, sat like a heavy burden on her finger. It reminded her that their relationship was all about sex and masquerades. It was about playing a wife-to-be and a heroic protector. It was about impressing the brass and scaring away the shadowy menace.

It wasn't about love. It wasn't real.

It was for two weeks, not forever.

Still, the impracticality of her feelings shaded the tone of her column.

There's a certain heartache of separation built into a military romance. That's why it's not for the faint of heart.

A man in uniform has to fight a lot of different battles. Not just enemy gunfire. Not just dealing with niggling comments about the lack of hair on his handsome head.

There's the physical and mental exertion of training. The war within himself to juggle the vastly different roles he faces—warrior, family man, lover. He has to handle the mental game of sending men into danger, the emotional challenge of healing his mind and body from injury, the occasional doubts of wondering if he's needed at home as much as he is on the front line.

The soldier's significant other has to miss him, support him, love him, seduce him, get tough with him. She has to give him a reason to come home every time, give him a reason to fight every day, warn him to watch his back without preaching to him as if he's a child.

Can you handle that?

If the answer is yes, then I might be losing my bet. There's a smorgasbord of men out there who can be just as hot out of uniform as they are fully dressed.

If the answer is no, then steer clear of anything in epaulets or army boots. You'll find more heartbreak than happiness.

In my next—and last—column on romancing your favorite branch of the service, I'll give you my final assessment on the personal research I've gathered.

But until then, keep it safe and casual, ladies. Don't invest your feelings in a soldier boy—unless you're prepared to enlist yourself—body, heart, mind and soul.

“That's depressing. I don't know whether to salute or cry.”

J.C. jumped in her chair at the flame-haired woman peeking over her shoulder. “Jeez, Lee!” Pressing a hand over her thumping heart, J.C. made a conscious effort to breathe normally again. How long had her editor been lurking inside her cubicle? “You startled the hell out of me.”

Lee hiked up the hem of her leopard-print caftan and perched on the corner of J.C.'s desk. “So. What did he do to you?”

J.C. executed the save command on her laptop and feigned innocence. “What did who do to me?”

“Your
research project
who's so good in the sack.” J.C.'s fake engagement ring paled in comparison to Lee's gaudy display of gold and gems as she pointed out J.C.'s left hand. “And who I'm guessing gave you this trinket as some kind of bribe or consolation prize?”

For a flake with gray roots, Lee Whiteley could be annoyingly perceptive. J.C. rolled her chair away from the desk and looked up at the concern her boss's eyes. “A, it's not a trinket. This was his mother's engagement ring so its value is priceless.” She hastily put up her hands to ward off the instant glee. “And, no, we're not engaged. It's…complicated.”

“Must be.” Lee was clearly intrigued and showed no signs of moving on.

“Major McCormick didn't do anything to me. I'm the one who's hurting him.”

“So he gave you an engagement ring that's not an engagement ring because you hurt him?” She tutted her tongue against her teeth. “My God, the rumors are true. Men don't make any sense.”

“Lee.”

“I'm sorry.” She tapped the edge of J.C.'s laptop. “From what I just read, that major's gotten into more than your pants. Am I going to have to pay you fifty bucks? Did this guy break your heart?”

J.C. reluctantly smiled at the maternal tone in Lee's voice. “Ethan's a good guy. Don't blame him. I think I'm the one who's screwed things up between us.”

Lee crossed her arms, settling in for an explanation. “The place has cleared out for the day. You want to tell me about it here or over Cosmopolitans at Tiki's?”

“I'd better avoid any bars.” J.C. sighed. “I need to think this through.”

“You've got it bad for your soldier boy, don't you?”

“He's a Marine, not a soldier.”

“Pardon me.” J.C. weathered Lee's teasing without a smile.

Confession
was
good for the soul. And if Ethan wouldn't listen… “He doesn't know I'm Dr. Cyn. And apparently, Dr. Cyn has stirred up enough controversy with his superior officers that it could cause him trouble with his job. He doesn't deal well with deception and the Corps means everything to him.”

“I'll bet not everything.” Despite her flashy exterior, Lee had a wise, kind soul inside. “You know, there's an old-fashioned trick for dealing with deception in a relationship. I'm surprised you didn't study it in college.”

“What's that?”

“Tell him the truth.”

J.C. pushed out of her chair and circled the desk. “I tried, Lee. He blew it off. I think the idea of him seeing someone who could wreck his whole career was too ludicrous to even consider being true.”

“Try again. Make him believe.”

“How?”

“You're the one who has a way with words. I'll leave that up to you.”

With her thumb, J.C. toyed with the engagement ring. “He's out of town right now with a family emergency. Calling him up to tell him I lied and I'm sorry sounds trivial and selfish.” She fisted her hand and held the ring down at her side, out of sight. “Maybe I should just let it go and stick with our original two-week plan. Let the affair run its course. He can walk away none the wiser, and Dr. Cyn never has to hurt him or his career.”

“How fair is that to either one of you?”

“Lee—”

“Honey, if he makes you blush the way you did the other morning, and makes you hurt the way you do tonight—then he might be the one.” Lee was on her feet, wagging her finger at J.C. “Now I'm all for a good romp in the hay and walking away with both parties satisfied. But if you've found someone you want to romp with the rest of your life, I'd say go for it.”

In her own colorful way, Lee had touched on everything J.C. was feeling—everything she was fearing could be lost. “But what if I'm not what he wants for the rest of his life?”

“Do I really have to say this?” Lee jingled as she hugged an arm around J.C.'s shoulders. “This is a relationship, right? What would Dr. Cyn advise you to do?”

 

J.C.
READ THROUGH
her final column one last time, adjusted a couple of typos, then took a deep breath and forwarded it to Lee's computer.

Passing up Lee's offer to buy her dinner and talk some more, J.C. had been motivated to sit down and write. Baring her soul and risking her heart seemed a fair enough trade-off, considering everything Ethan had been asked to
endure on behalf of his country. Surviving rebel attacks. Missing the end of his mother's life. Learning to dance.

By the time the column came out, she would have had time to sit down with Ethan and talk this out. She could show him the columns on her laptop, the piles of phone messages and e-mails addressed to Dr. Cyn. She would tell him her fifty-dollar bet was a mistake, and she would gladly pay up. She would tell him that, luckily for her, her research project had turned into something she thought was very special. She would tell him that he had proven her wrong about getting involved with a military man.

Would he please forgive her? Judge her as J. C. Gardner, and not Dr. Cyn? And if the deception was too much to forgive, if he didn't think she was the right kind of woman for the man he needed to be, then…

She squeezed her eyes shut and sank back into the chair. “Oh, God, Ethan, where are you?”

Her voice echoed in the empty suite of offices. She was weary. She was lonesome. And she was desperately afraid he'd leave her for good the way her father had.

“No,” she argued with herself, closing her laptop and straightening her notes. “He said he was coming back. He'll be back.”

The next time she saw Ethan, she would tell him everything.

When he called, she would tell him that they needed to talk. He would probably beg to be shot instead. But maybe if she promised him his whole sweet, square—completely hot—totally naked and actually in the bed fantasy, he would be willing to listen to her explanation and apology.

When he called.

J.C. stared at the cell phone she'd left sitting on her desk for easy access.

Ethan still hadn't called.

The achy growl in her stomach reminded her it was well past dinnertime and she'd barely touched her lunch. She paper-clipped her Web site printouts and carried the stack over to her file cabinet to put them away.

With his brother in the hospital, worried about his future, Ethan was probably busy being strong for his family. Or there was some insurance snafu that his practical mind was taking care of. Or he'd lost her number. Any of those or a dozen other excuses could explain why he hadn't yet called.

It couldn't be “out of sight, out of mind”—that he'd forgotten his promise to her. That he'd forgotten her.

She slammed the file drawer shut, trying to clear the thought from her head. Her father had worked that way, not Ethan. But once the idea had been planted, all those old hurts dug their sharp little claws into the back of her mind and refused to let go. J.C. could only mute them by busying her hands with packing up her laptop and her bag, and digging out her keys to walk down to the parking garage.

When her cell phone chirped, she jumped in her shoes. But her startled response quickly gave way to a silly joy that started in her smile and cascaded all the way down her body until it curled her toes.

The Out Of Area message on the dial only broadened her smile. She pressed the talk button. “Ethan?”

Dead silence.

A blip of unease sobered her giddy feeling of relief.

Something was terribly wrong. “Ethan…” How did she say this delicately? “Is Travis going to be all right?”

“Ethan? Travis?” A garbled, unfamiliar voice turned her blood to ice. “It's a wonder you can get any man to call you, Dr. Cyn, the way you trash us in your column.”

J.C. shut the phone and dropped it onto her desk. She
shook her fingers loose as if she'd been zapped with an electric shock.

Her heart raced in her chest. Her breath came in stuttered gasps. She turned a jerky circle, scanning each darkened desk and corridor for any sign of a friend.

I know who you are.

He had her card. He knew where she lived, knew where she worked, knew her real name. Did he know she was by herself right now?

The phone chirped again and she wondered why the hell she hadn't turned the thing off. She watched it on her desk. Two rings. Three. Four.

What if it was Ethan calling?

Yes. Ethan.

Adrenaline poured through her body, sparking hope, giving strength.

She picked up the phone and answered. “Hello?”

“That wasn't very nice.”

Fear crept in, creating imaginary movement in the shadows around her, sharpening her hearing to detect every noise—from the whirring of the water fountain to the distant sounds of traffic outside to her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

But she fought to hold on to rational thought. She tried desperately to connect the voice to her memory of Juan Guerro's threats. The pitch seemed lower, but the words were too muffled to be sure.

“Who is this?” she asked, her voice more of a tremor than a demand. “I didn't get you into trouble, you know. You did that yourself. What are you trying to accomplish? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Shut up, bitch! I'm talking.”

J.C. retreated a step, as if he'd shouted the order in her face. “I'm sorry.”

“That's better. Now I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen. And if you hang up again, we'll have this conversation in person.”

She thought she heard a metallic click in the background on the phone. Was it the cocking of a gun? The unlatching of a door lock? Whatever it might have been, it was ominous enough to get J.C. to toss her bag over her shoulder and head out of her cubicle to the bank of light switches behind Ben Grant's desk. She flipped on every switch until the entire floor was flooded with light. Thankfully she was alone.

Any sense of security was fleeting. She was
alone.

“I'm one of those military heroes you've been bad-mouthing. I'm a lean, mean fighting machine, and women love me.”

Not every woman. “And?”

“I want you to print a retraction.” Even muffled by the static on the phone, she could hear the suggestive catch in his voice. “I want you to say I know how to please a woman. Any woman. Every woman. We train harder, we
are
harder—”