Second Time Lucky (Club Decadence Book 5) (3 page)

Stopping in front of her, she noticed right off, he smelled good. Not cologne, but a clean, fresh masculine scent that invaded her senses.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“No, my cab just dropped me off.”

“Good.” His blue eyes sparkled. “When you didn’t call me, I was worried you wouldn’t show.”

“We made a deal, didn’t we? Drugs for dinner.”

Two patrons entering the restaurant overheard and scowled their disapproval.

He chuckled. “Put that way it sounds terrible.”

“Oops,” she responded with a quiet giggle. “Thank you for the flowers, by the way. They were beautiful, still are, actually, especially the calla lilies.”

“I was hoping you’d like them. The florist thought it an odd combination. I thought they went nicely with the roses, if a bit unusual.”

She blinked. “You went in person to pick them out?” While certainly not well versed in how a man ordered flowers, she assumed one called an order in or went online.

He also looked surprised. “Is there any other way?”

She smiled. “Exactly how long were you deployed, Sergeant?”

“I’ve been active duty for twelve years, so twelve years.”

“I don’t suppose they had 1-800-flowers before you left. I appreciate the personal touch, Sean. I’m not used to it.”

Again, surprise flashed across his face. “What’s the matter with men in D.C.? A gorgeous, sweet girl like you should have been scooped up a long time ago. Lucky for me they’re all either stupid, or blind.”

“Yeah, lucky for you.”

He grinned down at her. “Before we go in, I need to ask a favor.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a tie. “Can you? I’m out of practice and they won’t let me in without it.”

“I’m no expert, although I think I can manage.”

Stepping in close, she flipped up his collar, slipped the silk tie around his neck, and quickly tied a perfect Windsor knot on the first try.

“No expert, my casted foot. You could have done that in the dark, baby. Who taught you, your dad, an old boyfriend?”

Although the sound of ‘baby’ in his deep baritone warmed her insides, her smile faded as an ugly memory, long since suppressed, invaded her mind. “Both I suppose,” she murmured. “Shall we go in, I’m starving.”

As she turned toward the entrance, out of the corner of her eye, she saw his brows gather and his full lips turn down. She moved forward, as if nothing was wrong. That part of her life did not exist for her anymore.

* * * * *

Observing her closely throughout the evening, he found her charming, witty and as beautiful as he remembered, although there were shadows in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. At least, he hadn’t noticed them. Maybe he’d been off his game due to the morphine. It made him foggy-headed and obtunded. He hated it, but it had been a necessary evil postop. Since leaving the hospital, it had been ibuprofen, nothing more.

He noticed she seemed edgy, glancing toward the door every time new customers came in as if expecting someone. And when a crash echoed from the kitchen, she jumped, nervous as a cat. He’d half expected to see her clinging by her claws from the ceiling. She waved him off when he asked if anything was wrong, denying there was. Even so, Sean sensed there was something.

For their meal, she deferred to him, saying she wasn’t picky and was having a difficult time choosing. He selected seared scallops and red snapper, butternut squash and new potatoes. For dessert, she offered her opinion with a wrinkled, cute upturned nose at the chef’s signature chocolate ganache and the blood orange Napoleons, nodding in relief when he suggested the pineapple and ginger spice cake as an alternative.

After the waiter left, she admitted, “I didn’t know what half of that was, but blood oranges sounded disgusting. Pineapple cake, I understand.”

“Not a purveyor of haute cuisine?”

She laughed, with a musical quality to the lovely sound. “I’m an LPN, Sean, know what that means?”

“Uh, I thought I did, although from the look on your face I’m guessing I’m wrong, so tell me.”

“It means ‘low paid nurse’ and with the cost of living in D.C., the only thing French I eat are fries and toast.”

His smile quickly faded, replaced by concern. “I should have asked where you lived before picking a place. I’m sorry. How much did the cab fare set you back? I’ll cover it.”

“I didn’t tell you hoping for a handout, Sean. I’m fine, really. I live in Hyattsville, which is about thirty minutes away.”

“Do you drive to work every day?”

She shook her head. “I take the bus. It’s not so bad.”

“Is that safe? You get off after midnight.”

She shrugged. “Do you know what rent is in the city? More than my monthly salary, so I commute. I’m used to it, but enough about me. What are your plans while you’re recuperating?”

He didn’t appreciate the change in subject, though he let it slide. If they continued to see each other, he’d have to scope out her apartment and the bus service, no woman of his was going to ride the bus in the middle of the night and place herself in danger.
You’re thinking too far ahead,
he warned himself
.
One dinner does not make a relationship.
Yet, with only a few encounters, there was something about her that drew him in. And he knew instinctually what it was.

She was submissive.

The soft voice, the frequently lowered lashes when he asked something personal, deferring to him to order dinner, even the career she’d chosen said a lot. Nursing was a respected profession, but it was a role subordinate to an authority figure, although he’d never be stupid enough to describe it that way to her. Taking orders and directions from another, the caretaking and nurturing involved and the people pleasing, all seemed to point in a submissive direction.

It didn’t make her weak, by any means, it was simply her nature. It would take a bit more observation, some probing questions and if they continued down this path, a frank, open discussion of his lifestyle. Although for him, it hadn’t been much of a lifestyle of late. Back to back to back tours in Afghanistan didn’t allow much time for a social life, particularly one D/s in nature.

Remembering she’d posed a question, he addressed it. “I’ve been assigned to desk duty while I go through rehab. I start back in two weeks. The doctors think I could be back with my unit in about ninety days, if—”

“Back to war,” she cut in, her knit brow speaking volumes. “Back to more IED’s on the roadside, suicide bombers, terrorists trying to kill you, it scares me, Sean. I see young men, kids really, come into the hospital all the time with missing limbs, head injuries, awful wounds and psychiatric problems. The whole thought of you going off to war and getting hurt again... I saw the scars when I admitted you, this wasn’t the first time.”

“It’s the nature of my business, Mara. I’m a soldier and a good one. In nearly twelve years, this is the first time I’ve been away from my team for more than a week and it wouldn’t have happened if the surgeon at the field hospital hadn’t missed some of the shrapnel.”

“Even without the complications, you wouldn’t have been released to go traipsing around Afghanistan with a fractured femur, Sean. Don’t forget about that.”
He arched a brow at her absorbing the hit to his pride. She couldn’t contain her laughter.
“Sorry. I forgot I was talking to a badass Green Beret.”

“We prefer Special Forces.”

Reaching across the table, she rested her hand over his. “I’m glad you didn’t stay in Afghanistan, Sean, or we’d have never met.”

“I guess I lucked out when someone screwed up, huh?”

She tilted her head as she considered him closely. “You have a very positive outlook to see an inept surgeon and post-op complications as a good thing.”

He returned her smile. “What would getting ticked off and brooding about it accomplish?” Sean squeezed her hand, turning it over while he rubbed her palm with the pad of his thumb. “I’ve actually been considering entering civilian life. My friends are opening a business back home and have offered me a partnership.”

“And home is…?”

“San Antonio, Texas.”

She sat back, perceptibly bothered by that fact. “So you’d be leaving, either way.”

“With this rehab, it’s three months away at least and I’m not certain what I’ll do. It takes that long or longer to process an Army discharge anyway, so I might have to rejoin my team, depending how I do.”

“I hope not. Of the options, going back is my least favorite. I’d rather see you safe and two thousand miles away, than in harm’s way.”

“Let’s talk about something more pleasant, like our next date. I had a good time tonight, Mara. I’d like to see you again?”

“I’d like that, Sergeant, but is it so easy? No drug deals this time?”

As she spoke, their waiter came up with their dessert and coffee, giving them both an odd look. When he walked away, she giggled.

“Oops, I have the worst timing. He must think we’re thugs.”

“Yeah, big bad you. All what, one hundred ten pounds of you?”

“You’re very kind, although I think you left out a few rounded body parts in your guestimation.”

“Believe me, I took into account all your round parts and gave them due consideration.”

Again, she averted her gaze. Yes, definitely submissive or terminally shy. With her wit, teasing and lack of blushes, he didn’t think it was the latter.

The date ended much too soon. Set up in temporary housing upon discharge from Walter Reed, he wouldn’t insult her by asking her there on their first date. He made a mental note to follow up on his request for an off-post apartment, especially if he was going to be there for the next several months. The other reason for cutting it short was that his leg was beginning to throb and he needed to put it up.

He hailed her a cab, prepaid her fare, despite her protests, and before tucking her inside, he moved in for a goodnight kiss. It was light, seductive yet restrained, with only a whisper of tongue since he was trying to remain a gentleman. She was breathless and melting in his arms by the time he raised his head.

“See you Friday, nightingale?”

“Yeah, Lucky, I’ll see you Friday.”

With a slow grin, he asked, “Why lucky?”

“You mean other than some quack leaving shrapnel in your leg so you could meet me?”

“Yeah,” he agreed laughingly, “other than that.”

“Because I wear scrubs 90% of my life and you got me into a dress. You are indeed a lucky man.” Flashing him a brilliant smile, she slid into the back seat and blew him a kiss. With great reluctance, he shut the door and watched as the cab pulled away from the curb. He wanted more, so very much more. The cast up to mid-thigh and throbbing pain in his leg both trumped the ache in his dick, however. It was best to take it slow with her.

Chapter Three

Slow turned out to be weeks, which turned into a month and then some. During that time, Sean went back to work, a temporary desk job at the pentagon in his C.O.’s office pushing papers, which he hated, but it kept him occupied. Although it didn’t take his mind off of Mara, who seemed to possess his thoughts nearly every waking moment. Admittedly, he was hooked. With her full-time nursing job at Walter Reed, working straight evening shifts and alternating weekends, he didn’t get to see her as often as he’d like. They made the best of it, spending as much of their down time together as possible.

Options for dates were limited due to his decreased mobility and the continued swelling if he was on his feet too long, so it was usually dinner, movies, or doing both at his apartment. They did the tourist things neither of them had ever done before, despite Mara being a lifelong resident. Conscious of Sean’s healing leg, they took in the D.C. After Dark bus tour, observed the July 4
^th
fireworks show from a buddy’s downtown balcony, and took a three-hour Segway tour about town, which reduced Mara to fits of laughter when she took forever getting the hang of it or went round in circles.

After six weeks, Sean’s cast was replaced by a brace and the grueling physical therapy started. Slowly his leg began to get stronger and the pain gradually decreased. The swelling, although reduced, persisted and had Mara concerned, even though his doctors didn’t seem worried. Sean soon progressed to a cane, which wounded his male pride, but it made him more mobile than with the crutches.

The cane helped while he was maneuvering around his cramped kitchen as he made Mara dinner one evening after work. He was making spaghetti, one of the few things he could cook that was edible. The salad was tossed and chilling in the fridge with the ranch dressing (not from the bottle, the freshly made kind with milk, mayo and the seasoning packet). The oven was preheated, the Italian bread buttered, sprinkled with garlic salt and ready to go. On the stove, the meat sauce was hot and bubbly. The water was boiling, salted, oiled and ready for the pasta to be dropped the minute she walked in the door. A red wine would have been nice, except he didn’t like to drink alone. Mara never touched the stuff, admitting only that her mother had been an alcoholic and she wasn’t about to take any chances if she had the addiction gene. For dessert, he had her favorite, white chocolate raspberry macaroons from The Sweet Lobby in Barrack’s Row.

Everything was ready. He checked his watch—half past five—she was running late. He grabbed his cell from the counter. As it rang in his ear, he heard her ring tone faintly from outside the front door.

“It’s open, baby,” he called as he rounded the counter heading for the door.

She walked in before he got there, juggling an overnight bag, her immense zebra print purse—which he teased her about relentlessly; it was bigger than she was—and a tote bag.

“Success!” Moving to help, he grabbed her overnight bag with his free hand. “I’ve worn you down and you’re moving in.”

She glanced up at him, appearing flustered and let out the nickname she’d given him with a shuddering breath. “Lucky.”

Seeing her face crumple, he pulled the rest of the items from her arms and tossed them on a nearby chair, then gathered her close. “What’s wrong?”