Marine for Hire (9 page)

“Sheri.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I thought you were taking a bath. I—um—”

“That’ll be thirty-two-fifty, mister,” a voice said from the back porch. “Plus tip.”

“Right, right,” Sam said, setting the bags on the counter as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He counted out a few bills, then turned back to the door and handed them to someone outside. “Keep the change.”

He turned back to Sheri, looking sheepish. “There’s been a slight alteration in our dinner plans.”

“Cooking mishap?” She laughed and peered in one of the bags. “Oh, God. Did you order kalua pork and cabbage from that place down the street? That’s my favorite.”

She pulled out one of the Styrofoam boxes and looked up to see Sam’s features flooded with a mix of relief and embarrassment. And maybe a little something else. His eyes flicked to her backside, and she remembered the panties on her bedroom floor. Could he tell she was going commando?

“I, um—yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m used to commercial ovens, and the last place I worked had a convection oven, so the timing is a little off and the temperature must’ve been—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sheri said, waving a hand as she pulled the rest of the boxes out of the bags. “I burn stuff all the time. I like to pretend it’s a culinary technique, but obviously it isn’t. There’s a reason you probably saw more than one fire extinguisher under the sink.”

“I wondered about that. Still, I’m really sorry. I took the burned roast out to the Dumpster already, and I opened all the windows, but—”

“Seriously, Sam. Don’t worry about it.” She popped the top on one of the takeout containers, plucking out a piece of pork with her fingers. She sighed with pleasure as she slipped it into her mouth. “God, that’s good.”

She chewed blissfully, then licked the tips of her fingers. When she looked back at Sam, he was watching her mouth with a funny expression.

She swallowed, feeling oddly guilty. “Whoops. Guess I should wait for dinnertime? And maybe for silverware.”

He swallowed and reached into the cupboard for plates. “Silverware’s overrated. I’m always up for using my fingers.”

She flushed, resisting the urge to look at his fingers and remember where she’d envisioned them five minutes ago. She turned to rinse her hands at the sink, then dried them on a flowery dish towel. “Seriously, if I had a quarter for every time I’d burned dinner, I’d have enough to buy kalua pork every night of the week for a year.”

He grinned, looking a little less sheepish now. “I thought about ditching the takeout containers and trying to pass this off as my own,” he confessed. “Let me at least make a salad. I’m pretty sure I can do that without burning anything.”

“I can chop veggies,” she offered. “Or set the table. Or—”

“No, just sit. Drink your wine, tell me about your first day at the new job.”

She hesitated, wanting to be useful. But hell, her knees still felt weak, and it was so nice to just sit down and relax, savoring the heady smell of pork and the sight of a muscular man moving around her kitchen.

She dropped into a dining room chair and picked up her wineglass, taking another sip. “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “It was mostly orientation stuff. A lot of rules about dress codes and holidays and sexual harassment policies and stuff.”

“That’ll be handy the next time you show up naked at the office on Easter and decide to sexually harass someone.”

He grabbed a knife off the counter. It was a huge knife—much bigger than Sheri would have chosen—and he handled it with a lot more force than she expected. She studied his fingers, huge and deft around the thick shaft.

She lifted her wineglass again, hoping to hide her flaming cheeks. “Right,” she said into the glass, remembering her conversation with Kelli earlier that afternoon. “No sexual harassment here. No siree.”

Christ, she really needed to Google the laws on employee/supervisor relations. She shouldn’t be thinking this much about sleeping with a guy who lived here as her employee.

Besides, she’d just extricated herself from one bad relationship. Did she really need to risk another one?

She drained the last of her wine and set it down, watching him chop with rough, powerful strokes. It seemed like an odd approach for lettuce, not that she was any sort of expert in the kitchen. He was the one with culinary training, after all. She didn’t recognize the knife, so apparently he traveled with his own kitchen tools.

“You wield that knife like you’re trying to kill someone,” she said. “You look downright lethal.”

He froze in mid-cut, but didn’t look up. “It’s a special technique I learned when I was training at Gonsalves in Japan. It—um—helps keep the lettuce from bruising.”

“I had no idea you could bruise lettuce,” she said, trailing the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass. “Amazing, the things you learn. Are the boys sleeping?”

Shit, a
normal mom
would have thought to ask long before this. She should probably check on them—

“They bounced themselves to sleep in those little chairs, so I put them in their cribs,” Sam said, dumping the lettuce in a bowl before reaching for a tomato. “Their morning nap was a little earlier than the usual routine, so it seemed smart to slip in another one now.”

“They’re champion nappers. I can’t believe how much they sleep. I think they get it from their father.”

“You spoken with him lately?”

“No,” she said, feeling a pang of guilt about the ignored messages. Technically, she hadn’t spoken with him. Still, the calls were becoming relentless, as were the demands they get back together as a family.

“Sheridan, a
responsible
parent would want her children to have both a father and a mother,”
he’d growled in his last voicemail.

She’d erased the message, wishing she could erase the guilt and worry building in the back of her mind.

She studied Sam, wondering if it bothered him to be caring for another man’s kids. Probably not. He wasn’t like the macho military guys she’d been around. The guys who wouldn’t dream of diapering their own children, let alone someone else’s.

“I can give them their baths later,” he said. “After they wake up.”

“It’s fine if they miss it once in a while, right? I mean, they’re babies. It’s not like they’re going on a date and need to impress anyone. That should be okay, right?”

Sam looked up, then nodded wisely. “Absolutely. That’s what it says in all the childrearing books.”

“I figured. They handled it okay after I left this morning?”

“They did. There was a little crying, but I stopped after about an hour.”

Sheri laughed, soothed by his sense of humor in spite of her guilt pangs over leaving the boys. She had to work—not just to keep a roof over their heads, but for her own sanity. Still, there were moments she feared every choice she made had the potential to damage the boys for life.

Sam dumped the tomato into the bowl, then reached for an avocado. He held it up for a moment, studying it like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Probably considering the proper kind of cut, whether he should do it rondelle or chiffonade or one of those other fancy techniques she’d only read about in cookbooks. She bit her lip, wishing she could be more useful.

“Want me to do it?” she asked, standing up. “I have this cute little avocado cutter my ex-mother-in-law gave me before she realized I was a total disaster in the kitchen.”

“Avocado cutter?”

“It’s silly, but it works.”

She scooted around him, then bent down to rummage through the lower drawer. It took her a moment to find it, and she had to paw through at least a dozen other abandoned kitchen tools she’d bought with the hope of being a better cook.

When she stood up, he was staring with his mouth slightly open.

Whoops. Had she shown off more than her avocado peeler when she’d bent down?

“Here,” she said, plucking the plump avocado from his fingers as she tried to ignore her flaming cheeks. “I can finish this if you want to get the rest of the food plated.”

“Of course,” he said, brushing past her en route to the silverware drawer. The kitchen was small, and Sam was not, so his hard, chiseled frame pressed into her as he moved to grab napkins and silverware.

“Pardon me,” he said, brushing against her as he slipped past on his way to the fridge. “More wine?”

“I’m good for now,” she said, gasping a little as he brushed against her again, electricity sparking everywhere they made contact. She finished slicing the avocado and tossed it into the bowl, then remembered a great vinaigrette she’d grabbed at the grocery store a week ago and shoved in the upper cupboard for when she ran out.

She stretched up to reach it, her T-shirt riding up above the waistband of her skirt as she felt around for the bottle.

“Here, let me,” Sam said, moving behind her to reach over her head. “Which one?”

His body pressed hot and solid against hers, hard in all the right places. She gasped, afraid to move or even breathe, certain she was going to explode with desire or simply melt back against him and beg him to touch her.

“White bottle,” she squeaked. “Brown polka dots.”

He shifted a little, grazing her backside with the fly of his shorts. Was it her imagination, or was there something hard jutting against her tailbone?

“Got it.” He lowered his arm, and Sheri turned, bringing them face-to-face in the cramped little kitchen. His breath ruffled her hair, and she breathed in the scent of kitchen spices and dish soap and hot, delicious man. Sam swallowed, and she watched his Adam’s apple move, watched a flicker of something spark in his eyes.

“Here you go,” he breathed, swallowing again. “Need anything else?”

God, yes.

She took the bottle from him, gripping it hard to keep from grabbing him. “That’s it. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and stepped away.

Heat surged through her as she finished tossing the salad with the dressing, wondering if this was all in her imagination, or if he was feeling it too. God, she hadn’t been this discombobulated by a man for years. Maybe ever. Her whole body buzzed with heat and desire and flat-out lust for the man now folding napkins into place at her dining room table.

She turned and took three steps into the dining area, her hip brushing his arm as she bent to fill his salad bowl. She thought she saw him lift his finger as if to touch the edge of her skirt, and even though she knew it was a bad idea, she grazed him with her breast when she leaned down to retrieve a piece of wayward tomato she’d dropped on the floor.

At last, she settled into her seat, folded her napkin in her lap, and picked up her wineglass. They were seated at opposite ends of the table, their plates brimming with food, their minds brimming with lust.

Or maybe that’s just me,
she thought, taking a sip of wine.

Across the table, Sam lifted his glass.

“So,” he began. “Are you
trying
to drive me insane, or do you genuinely want me to throw you across this table and fuck you ’til neither of us can stand?”

Chapter Ten

As Sam whacked Sheri on the back, trying to get her to stop choking on her wine, it occurred to him he needed to work on his communication skills.

“Sorry,” he said, giving her one more solid thump as she blinked up at him through teary eyes. “I probably could have broached the subject better.”

“
You think
?” she gasped.

“Just trying to get a handle on the elephant in the room.”

She coughed again and gave him an incredulous look. “By shooting it with a grenade launcher instead of a tranquilizer dart?”

He grinned as he handed her back into her chair and returned to his seat a safe distance away. He shrugged and picked up his fork. “Why use a big gun when a bigger one will do?”

“I really don’t think we should be talking about the size of your gun,” she said, stabbing into her salad with more force than necessary. “The last thing I need right now is a man in my life or in my bed or in my—in my—”

She trailed off, looking flustered as she forked a bite of salad into her mouth and chewed with startling vigor.

He speared a piece of pork and held it thoughtfully for a moment. “Look, we didn’t really talk about what happened last night—what almost happened—and now we’re dancing around each other trying to pretend nothing’s going on between us. I just think we need to get this out in the open.”

She took a sip of wine, regarding him coolly over the rim of her glass. “And what, pray tell, do you think is going on?”

“I’m insanely hot for you. In case that wasn’t painfully obvious.”

“It wasn’t, but thank you for clarifying.” Her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, and he watched as she raised the napkin to her lips.

“And based on the way you were squirming and pressing up against me last night,” he said, “I get the sense you aren’t exactly repulsed by me.”

She shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. “You’re not hideous.”

He speared a piece of tomato and tried not to look at her breasts. “But I think we both know that acting on our urges wouldn’t be smart.”

“Of course.”

“I work for you. Well, I work for Mac, and obviously he makes the rules here. Either way, it’s a conflict of interest. A very clear violation of ethics and laws and codes and—”

“Wait a minute. My brother told you not to sleep with me, didn’t he?” She set her fork down, looking annoyed.

“What?”

“Argh! That is
so
like him. Dammit, now I want to fuck you just to get him back.”

This time, it was Sam’s turn to choke on his wine. She started to stand, probably looking to whack him on the back in revenge, but he waved her off. When he stopped coughing, he shook his head.

“That doesn’t seem like the best reason to have sex with someone,” he said stupidly.

“No? Well, how about the fact that I
want
to jump your bones?”

“That’s a good reason.”

She set down her wineglass. “I’m not saying I’m going to. That would be the dumbest thing ever. I need a nanny, not a gigolo. I’m barely getting my life back together right now with this move and this job and this house. It would be insane to fuck the person who’s helping me do it all.”

“Well put.” He swallowed, not certain where to go with the conversation from here. “Okay, so we both agree that sleeping together wouldn’t be smart.”

“Agreed.” She frowned. “Wait, are you saying that because you’re not attracted to me, or because—”

“Sheri, Jesus.” He raked his hands through his hair. “Look, I want nothing more than to lift your skirt to palm that incredible ass, bend you over the kitchen counter, and make you scream my name. But I’ve seen your brother double-tap a moving target in high winds from 400 meters while running across cobblestones, and since I value my life—”

“When did you see my brother shoot?”

He froze. He gripped his fork, struggling to regain control of himself and this conversation.

“At a shooting range,” he said. “In college.”

“They have cobblestones at shooting ranges?”

“It was a very specialized shooting range.”

“Whatever,” she said, and speared a piece of avocado with more force than necessary. “I talked with Kelli this afternoon about how close I came to sleeping with you last night, and she said—”

“You told your friend
that
?”

“Of course. What do you think women talk about, pedicures and feelings?”

He swallowed. “Isn’t Kelli friends with Mac?”

Sheri rolled her eyes as she finished chewing a bite of salad. “No. Kelli wants to jump Mac, but he’s not aware she exists. That’s something I’d like to change in the future, but we’re getting off-topic here. So we’re in agreement about not sleeping together?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Absolutely.”

Sheri lifted her wineglass. “Okay then. Here’s to a platonic, professional, completely sexless working relationship.”

“Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass to hers.

It was the lousiest toast he’d ever made.

…

Sam did his best to avoid Sheri for the rest of the evening. That meant staying out of the kitchen, since she was out there banging pots and pans and doing something involving the blender.

He hid out in his bedroom, thankful he had a private bathroom so he could bathe the twins without running into her in the hallway. If he was going to keep his word—both to her and to Mac—it was wise to minimize temptation.

After bath time, he set the boys on a blanket on his floor and demonstrated a series of low-crawl drills and military push-ups.

“You want your hands shoulder-width apart like this for the push-up,” he said to Jackson, maneuvering the baby into position. Jackson giggled and grabbed hold of Sam’s finger with a surprisingly fierce grip.

“Excellent.” He saluted both boys. “Starting position—hut! I’ll call cadence. Ready? One, two, three.”

Jeffrey rolled over and attempted to stick his own foot in his mouth. Jackson screeched and crawled two feet before flopping on his belly and smacking his hand in a puddle of his own drool.

Sam smiled. “I had a buddy in the Marines who used to do that after a night of bar crawling. Not the sort of crawling you should be doing, incidentally.”

Jackson gave him a drooly grin and farted.

“Atta boy,” Sam said, and patted him on the back. “Probably good we’re hiding out in here if we’re doing guy stuff like that. If you want to scratch yourself inappropriately, now’s the time.”

Jeffrey smacked his pudgy palm on Sam’s pocket, which held his phone, wallet, and a pocketknife. Sam pulled it all out and set everything safely on the dresser, out of the boys’ reach.

“That reminds me, I need to Google culinary knife techniques,” Sam muttered. “I probably shouldn’t have used my dive knife to make salad. Now your mom thinks I look more like I’m prepping for hand-to-hand combat than prepping lettuce.”

Which was pretty much true, but it was bad to be so transparent. Between forgetting the diaper bag, burning the brisket, making the beds with military precision when he knew not to, screwing up the knife thing, and sticking his foot in his mouth over dinner, he wasn’t exactly batting a thousand today.

“Gotta be more careful,” he told the babies. “I owe it to your uncle. And your mom. She made it pretty clear she’s not interested in swapping spit with military guys after what your daddy pulled.”

Especially not one who lied to her the way Sam was doing.

The boys bounced up and down a few times and made some fussy noises he feared could be the start of another crying jag. He stood up and scooped one baby into each arm, savoring the sweet warmth of them cradled against his chest. “Come on. Time for bed.”

He put the boys down quietly, careful to avoid Sheri out in the kitchen. He heard her moving around in the boys’ room several times over the next few minutes, so he knew she was checking on them. At one point, he thought he heard Kelli’s voice down the hall, followed by the whirring of the blender.
Margaritas,
he thought, and wished he had one. A margarita sounded good, but not good enough to brave a trip down the hall and the temptation of Sheri’s pantyless ass curving beneath her skirt. Better to stay here at the other end of the house with his pants safely zipped.

En route from his bedroom to check on the boys, he spotted Sheri’s iPhone in a basket on the hall table. Glancing around to make sure she wasn’t watching, he flicked the power button and looked down at the screen. A text message flashed up at him.

Why the fuck aren’t you answering my calls? Don’t make me do something drastic, Sheri.

Sam scowled. The sender was Jonathan Price. How long had he been trying to contact her? What the hell did he want?

He started to scroll for past messages, but footsteps from the kitchen signaled Sheri was on the move. He powered the phone off and put it back, slipping quietly back into his room.

So Limpdick was harassing her. He’d have to check the phone again later. It was Sam’s job to keep him away. To protect this family. To protect
her.
He needed to check in with Mac, to let him know things were escalating.

Back in his room, Sam fired off an e-mail to Mac and one to his sisters letting them know he was okay. After that, he played a few rounds of darts with the small dartboard he’d tacked to one of the ridiculous apricot walls. His aim was still true, which was a small comfort. Not that he planned to return to his life as a sniper, but at least he still had the skills.

An hour later, Sam stared at his empty water glass. Even with the air-conditioning, it was hot as hell in here. Or maybe that was sexual frustration. He’d already taken a cold shower in hopes of cooling his libido. Now his stupid ice water was empty.

He stepped over to the door, listening for noises from the kitchen. He didn’t hear anything, so maybe she’d gone to bed. Maybe it was safe to brave the journey down the hall.

Since when are you such a chickenshit?

Sam sighed and unlocked his bedroom door. It wasn’t a matter of that. It was about respecting Sheri’s boundaries. It was about honoring his commitment to a friend. About following through on what he said he’d do. About remembering that the last time he’d failed to do something he pledged to do, innocent men had died. Horrible, awful deaths that could have been prevented if only Sam had done what his commanding officer ordered him to.

He gripped his water glass harder, fighting to block the memories as he made his way down the hall. Screams still echoed in his head, and he saw the flash of fire, felt the thunderous blast, felt the wave of scorching heat.

God, would he ever forget?

He shook his head, rounding the corner to the kitchen.

He froze in the doorway, paralyzed by what he saw.

Blood.

Blood everywhere—on the floor, on the counter,
Jesus
, even on the ceiling. And glass, holy shit, shards of glass everywhere.

And at the center of it all, Sheri.

Sheri with her hands and face and clothes and arms covered in red spatter, and a horrified look on her face.

“No!”