Resisting Her Rebel Hero (5 page)

“I
know
what you were thinking,” Cassidy quickly interrupted, slicing through tough, wet denim towards his knee. “Clearly your seduction techniques need adjusting.”

He grinned and said, “Oh, yeah?” before waggling his eyebrows in a comical way that had her rolling her eyes. When she stopped checking out the state of her brain she found him studying her with an intensity that had her pulse hitching then picking up its pace. The man’s mercurial mood changes made her dizzy.

“I’m talking about whatever it is that has you brooding when you think no one’s looking,” she said casually, as though she was just making conversation to take his mind off what she was about to do. “I’m talking about reacting to sharp stimuli like you’re expecting a ninja attack.” Something dark and haunted flickered in his gaze before his expression hardened. “Plenty of people suffer from PTSD, Major,” she continued casually, as she hacked through the denim to his knee. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

He made a rude sound. “You’re a shrink now?” he drawled, and Cassidy continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I specialized in trauma medicine. People who survive traumatic experiences come through ER on a daily basis. It’s very common.”

“Just being a SEAL exposes you to stressful situations,” Sam interrupted impatiently. “It’s the job. If you can’t deal, you have no business being a SEAL. So you deal. End of story.” He was silent a moment and she felt the air shift again. “Besides, I like blowing things up, remember.”

He clearly didn’t intend to say anything more, but that was okay, Cassidy reflected. At least next time—
if
there was a next time—she could bring it up when he was in a better frame of mind. For now she’d respect his need to avoid the subject.

Lifting the denim at his knee to make the final cuts, she acknowledged quietly, “Yes, I remember.”

She’d barely exposed his mid-thigh when he flinched and grabbed her hand with an alarmed “
Whoa.
” He’d clamped his free hand over his crotch and was eyeing the scissors like she was holding a live grenade.

Cassidy rolled her eyes and gently peeled away the blood-soaked denim, grimacing at the jagged gash on his hard thigh. “This is going to hurt,” she said, reaching for disinfectant and cotton wool. After liberally dousing the area, she probed the wound gently, before injecting a painkiller into his thigh.

“So,” he murmured when she’d tied off the first suture and was starting on the second, “what’s a big-city ER girl doing in a place like this?”

Cassidy flashed him an exasperated look and deftly maneuvered the needle scissors as she completed another suture. “We’ve already had this conversation, remember?”

Sam scratched his chin and the rasp of his stubble sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. It reminded her of how virile and dangerous he was to her peace of mind. “I was a little tired last night.”

“Uh-huh,” Cassidy said dryly, and tied off the next suture.

“You never did answer the question, though,” Sam pressed, before she could ask about his sleeping habits. He looked more exhausted and drawn than a single night without sleep warranted. And with his other symptoms, he was most likely having nightmares as well.

She studied him intently. “What question?”

“You. Here in the boondocks.”

Cassidy turned away from his keen gaze and sorted through a box of dressings. She needed a few moments to gather her composure. After selecting what she needed, she turned with a shrug. “Big-city burn-out. I just needed a change.”

“Ahhh,” Sam drawled, as she tore open the packaging with more force than was necessary.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, stripping off the backing and gently pressing it over the sutures on his belly.

He grimaced. “Romance gone bad.”

Cassidy gave a shocked laugh, staggered by his perception, and dropped her gaze to his thigh. She knew what he was doing. And, boy, was his diversion effective. “Believe me, romance is
way
off base.”

“Then...?”

Rattled, Cassidy sucked in a steadying breath then answered, “Let’s just say I needed to find some perspective.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, his eyes taking on a bleak expression that had her own problems vanishing in the sudden urge to wrap her arms around him. His mouth twisted in a sad, bitter smile. “God knows, I’m acquainted with perspective.”

Unsure how to respond in a way that wouldn’t have her coming across as an emotional wreck, Cassidy silently went back to work. Besides, what was there to say? Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have any clue either. By the time she’d finished he seemed to have slipped into sleep but when she eased away, he groaned and sat up.

A quick glance over her shoulder caught his grimace of pain. His jaw bunched and he grabbed the side tattooed with bruises as he swung his legs over the side. Having finally come off his adrenaline high, he was pale, exhausted and hurting.

“I’ll get you some pain meds,” she said quietly, turning away to reach into the overhead cabinet. She heard a faint sound and felt the air shift at her back an instant before heat spread along her shoulders and down to the backs of her thighs. Her pulse leapt, her chest went tight and it was all she could do to keep from turning into his big, hard body. To lean on him and let him lean on her.

A long tanned arm reached over her shoulder and he snagged a bottle of pain meds. “This’ll do,” he said, his voice gravel-rough and sexy. She felt his gaze and turned her head, slowly lifting her gaze up his tanned throat to the hard line of his shadowed jaw, past his poet’s mouth and strong straight nose.

He was close. Too close. His gold eyes darkened and something vibrated and snapped between them. Something deep and primal. Something so incendiary she was surprised her clothes didn’t catch fire.

Cassidy opened her mouth to say—
God, she didn’t have a clue—
then snapped it shut when nothing emerged. The air around them abruptly heated and to her horror his eyes went all hot and sleepy. He felt it too, she realized, and all she had to do was shift a couple of inches closer...and their mouths would—

No sooner had the thought formed than Sam was moving, and before she could do more than squeak out a protest, he’d spun her around and pushed her up against the wall and the heat became a liquid fire in her blood.

She saw his lips moving but heard nothing past the rush of blood filling her ears. Her palms tingled, her body tensed in anticipation and time slowed as his head dipped. Then his mouth was closing over hers and everything...
everything
...sound, heat, sensation...was rushing at her like she’d entered a time warp and was speeding towards something destructive...and wildly exhilarating.

Shock was her first reaction, her second was “
Hmmf...
”
 
When she realized her palms were flat against his hard belly, she tried to shove him away. She didn’t want this. It was too much, too little and...
God...
too
everything
. Instinctively she knew that if she let him continue, he’d suck her into his force-field and she’d burn up in the impact. But then he lifted his head and his battered lips brushed across hers, soothingly and so sweetly, and her resistance crumbled.

With a low growl she felt in the pit of her belly, his mouth descended, opening over hers to consume every thought in her head and pull the oxygen from her lungs, leaving her senses spinning.

She heard a low, husky moan and realized with a sense of alarm that it had come from her.
God
...she never moaned.
Ever
. But, then, she’d never been kissed like her soul was being sucked from her body.

She clutched at him to keep from sliding to the floor and an answering groan filled the air, cocooning them in heated silence. This time she was certain it wasn’t her.

Tunneling long fingers into her hair, Samuel wrapped them around her skull to tip her head so he could change the angle of the kiss. Instantly his tongue slid past her lips to tangle with hers. Cassidy’s breath hitched, her mouth softened and her eyes drifted closed. As if she welcomed the all-encompassing heat.

And, God, how could she not?
She’d never felt anything like it. It was like being suspended in a thick, heated silence with nothing but the taste of him in her mouth, the hard feel of him against her, the sound of her pounding pulse filling her head, while heat and wildness rushed through her veins.

And just when her body flowed against his and she thought she would pass out from lack of oxygen, he broke the kiss and murmured a stunned “
What the hell...?
” between dragging desperate breaths into his lungs.

Confused by the sudden retreat, a small frown creased the smooth skin of her forehead and her eyes fluttered open to see his gaze burning into hers with a fierce intensity—as though he blamed her for the tilting of the earth.

For long stunned moments he stared at her like he’d never seen her before. Then, so abruptly her knees buckled, he shoved away from the wall and retreated, leaving her feeling like he’d drawn back his fist and slugged her in the head.

“Wh-what...? Why...?” Great, now she was stuttering. She gulped and tried again. “What the hell was that?”

Angling his body, Sam folded his arms across his chest and propped his shoulder against the wall where not seconds ago he’d had her pinned. Abruptly inscrutable, his arched brow questioned her sanity.

After a long moment his gaze dropped to her mouth again. “I had to see if you taste as delicious as you look,” he drawled, as though it was perfectly normal to push someone up against a wall and suck the air from their lungs.

Infuriated with the quiver in her belly and the urge to slide back against the wall with him, Cassidy shoved at the hair that had been disturbed by his marauding fingers and glared back at him. “Look,” she snapped, “I’m not some brainless Navy bunny desperate to trade passable kisses with a hot Navy SEAL. I haven’t the time or the inclination and this is certainly
not
the place.”

His eyes narrowed in challenge and for a second she thought he’d get mad, but finally his mouth slid into a slow, sexy grin. “
Hot?”
His eyebrows waggled. “You think I’m
hot
?”

And she wanted to slug him.

Deciding to escape before she did or said something she would regret, Cassidy headed for the door on shaky legs. She paused with a cool look over her shoulder, as if she hadn’t just had her tongue in his mouth.
Not going to think about that.

“If you feel feverish or the area surrounding your injuries becomes inflamed and swollen,” she said curtly in parting, “phone in for a prescription. Otherwise make an appointment to have those stitches removed in a week.”

CHAPTER FIVE

S
AM
 
STOOD
 
BEHIND
 
the solid oak bar and mixed cocktails for a table of women in the corner near the dance floor. It was their second set of drinks for what looked like some kind of ritual girls’ night out. Gifts were piled in the corners of the booth, leading him to surmise it was either someone’s birthday or a bachelorette party.

He just hoped they didn’t get out of hand and start dancing on the tables and shedding their clothes or he’d be forced to throw them out. Some of the male customers tended to get a little upset when he broke up impromptu floor shows, but even in Crescent Lake the sheriff’s department frowned on that kind of behavior. The last time it had happened he’d ended up in a jail cell at the mercy of an evil blonde.

Shifting to ease the pressure on his injured thigh, Sam nodded to a few old acquaintances and poured a cosmopolitan into a martini glass.

He’d never understood how any self-respecting adult could order cocktails called orgasms or pink panthers, let alone drink them. He was a strictly beer and malt kind of guy and the thought of slugging back sickly-sweet concoctions the color of candy floss was enough to make him gag. Of course he’d also been known to toss back the occasional tequila with his buddies—but only as a matter of pride.

An off-duty deputy called out, “Hey, Sam,” as he pushed his way through the crowd, arm slung across the shoulders of a hot babe in tight jeans and even tighter tank top. Sam responded with an eye-waggle in the woman’s direction and Hank grinned, calling out, “She’s got a friend. Interested?”

Sam laughed and shook his head. His sister wasn’t due in till ten, but until then he was in charge. It was only a little after eight and Fahrenheit’s was already packed. He could hardly hear himself think over the sound of music pouring from the jukebox. The band was busy setting up but wasn’t due to start until nine and the kitchen was pushing out huge platters of buffalo wings, fries and chili hot enough to singe the varnish off the bar.

He’d spent the entire week
 
rescuing stray cattle, hauling in joyriders and dodging buckshot from old man Jeevers, who thought the deputies were aliens beamed down from the mother ship. And when he wasn’t playing cop he’d worked the taps behind the bar, listening to Jerry Farnell recount his experiences in Desert Storm.

His brother had talked him into “helping out” at the sheriff’s office, but Sam wasn’t fooled. Ruben wanted some fraternal bonding time so he could casually talk about why Sam was home, acting like a moody bastard instead of parachuting into hostile territory and sneaking up on bad guys.

He suspected his family had formed a tag team to work on him, hoping he’d crack and spill his guts. They were clearly as tired of his bad attitude as his CO had become. Heck,
he
was tired of his bad attitude. He wanted to get back to the teams, doing what he’d been trained for.

What they didn’t understand was that SEALs didn’t crack under pressure or talk about their missions. What they did was mostly classified so they
couldn’t
talk. Besides, he’d seen and done some pretty bad things that he didn’t want to think too hard about.
Ever
. If he did he’d go crazy and end up like Jerry, propping up a bar somewhere, getting drunk while reliving his glory days.

Finally, the bozos taking up one side of the bar got tired of trying to provoke him and turned their attention to speculating about the fancy Boston babe helping out at the hospital.

He eventually stopped listening to their inventive illnesses just to have “five minutes alone with her so I can drop my shorts and show the little lady what a
real
man looks like.”

Sam snorted. Doc Boston might have come to town to “get some perspective” but he suspected her
perspective
didn’t include checking out the local talent. She was a beautiful, classy woman who’d probably seen countless men drop their shorts, and an idiot like Buddy Holliday would hardly impress her. Besides, her reaction to
his
kiss had told him he’d been right. Some guy had worked her over and she was taking it out on him.

Except in his experience a woman didn’t always need a reason to act like a man was a pervert for pushing her up against the wall and sucking the air from her lungs. They often behaved irrationally for no apparent reason—which was why he enjoyed being a SEAL. Guys didn’t mind if you scratched yourself in public, and burping was an accepted form of male bonding.

Furthermore, before she’d stormed off, bristling, with insult, she’d had her beautiful body pressed against his, her hands in his hair and her tongue in his mouth—and had enjoyed every hot minute of it, no matter what she’d said.

The good news was people suffering from PTSD didn’t dream or fantasize about kissing a woman until her muscles went fluid and her breath hitched in her throat. They didn’t obsess about running their hands through long, silky hair or down smooth, sleek thighs and they sure as hell didn’t have erotic dreams about someone who treated them like she wanted to slide her lush curvy body up against you one minute then scrape you off the bottom of her shoe the next.

He’d be insane to even consider pursuing someone who ripped off a dozen layers of skin along with an adhesive dressing. And, contrary to popular opinion, Sam Kellan wasn’t insane.

Fortunately someone called his name and Sam turned, grateful for the distraction. He’d spent way too much time thinking about her as it was.

Over the next hour he kept the drinks coming and tried to work up some enthusiasm for the trio of woman bellied up to the bar, heavily made-up eyes currently stripping him naked and acting like he should feel flattered.

He didn’t. He’d learned early that women liked Navy SEALs. They liked their big muscles and hard bodies and they liked their stamina. He mostly liked women too, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood to oblige them.

By the time his sister arrived for her shift, he was ready to head off into the wilderness to get away from people for a while. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, in a tone that had her welcoming smile morph into a confused frown.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re late.”

Hannah flicked her attention to the wall clock. “Fifteen minutes. Big deal. And quit scowling like that, you’re scaring away my customers.” She looked over the happy crowd and noticed the group of men cozied up to the bar, scarfing down buffalo wings, and grimaced when she recognized them. “What did Buddy say to upset you?” she demanded, eyeing him cautiously, like she expected him to morph into a psycho.

“I’m not upset.”
Yeesh
, what was with women lately? “Women get upset, guys get mad.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, what are you
mad
about now?”

“I’m not mad. Listening to them yap about the length of their johns and betting on who’s going to score first is giving me a brain bleed.”

“So? They do that every week. Last week it was with that group of coeds from Olympia. You thought it was pretty damn funny then and told me to chill when I wanted to throw them out.”

He grimaced. “It gets old real fast. You’d think they’d move on from the high-school locker room talk.”

She looked skeptical. “You’re talking about Buddy Holliday, right? The guy who calls himself Buddy Holly and plays air guitar against his fly?” Sam couldn’t prevent a grunt of disgust. Hannah cocked her head and asked casually, “Or is it because they’ve been betting on a certain doctor over at the hospital?”

Sam folded his arms over his chest and flattened his brows across his forehead. “What are you yapping about now?” Except Hannah wasn’t fazed by his intimidating SEAL scowl—in fact, she moved closer, as though anticipating some juicy gossip and didn’t want to miss any salacious details. Sam didn’t know why she bothered. They could stand at opposite ends of the bar and bellow at each other and no one would hear them over the band.

“Don’t worry, Sammy. That lot are big on talk and small on action. Emphasis on small.”

“And I need to know this, why?”

Hannah ignored the question. She was like a Rottweiler with a chew toy when she was on the track of something. “Ruben says she could be in Hollywood, playing a classy playboy doctor.” She snickered. “I think he’s in love.”

And suddenly Sam felt like he was suffocating. He tore off his apron and threw it onto the counter behind the bar, barely resisting the urge to rip the bottle of gin out of his sister’s hand and smash it into the mirror behind the bar—after emptying the contents down his throat. But he drew the line at sissy drinks and knew his sister would be mad if he broke up the place.

Shoving his fingers through his hair, he bit back an extremely explicit curse. He needed air. He needed to get a grip. He needed to get away from people for a while.

“I’m out of here,” he snarled, pushing past his sister. “You’re on your own.”

Stunned by the leashed violence tightening his face, Hannah turned to gape at him. “Wha—? What did I say? What did I do?”

Sam’s snarled expletive over his shoulder died at the baffled hurt in her huge eyes. Guilt slapped at him and he let go with an angry hiss of frustration.

“Nothing,” he said, wearily pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes to ease the headache threatening to explode his brain, along with his temper. He really needed to get a grip. Hannah didn’t deserve his filthy mood. “I’m just tired and I have a headache.”

“Again?” She looked concerned. “Do you need to see a doctor?” And all Sam’s irritation returned in a rush.

“
No
. I
don’t
need to see a damn doctor,” he said wearily. “I
am
a doctor, remember?” Her expression turned skeptic and he knew what she was thinking. That he needed a shrink, not an MD.

“You never used to let Buddy bug you, so what’s your problem?” she demanded, and before he could remind her he was a SEAL without a team, her eyes got big and a startled laugh escaped. “It’s her, isn’t it? The fancy Boston doc the guys are always talking about.” Her eyes gleamed with fiendish delight, like when she was ten and she’d found him reading the
Playboy
magazine he’d found clearing out Mr. Henderson’s garage. He almost expected her to burst out with, “I’m gonna tell Mom.” What came out was worse.

“It
is
.” She cackled gleefully and before he could ask what the hell she was talking about, she snickered. “
You’re
the one with a thing for Doc Boston. Oh, boy, this is great. It’s like the time you and Ruben fought over Missy Hawkins, and came home sporting black eyes and split lips. So what’s it gonna be, huh? Pistols at dawn or down-’n-dirty street fighting? Can I watch?”

Sam bit back a curse and felt the back of his skull tighten. “And they think
I’m
the family nut job.” He squinted at her. “So, what are you, thirteen? I’m a Navy SEAL, for God’s sake. We don’t get
things
for women or fight over them. People get killed that way.”

Hannah’s eyes widened, she looked intrigued. “Has that ever happened?”

“
No
.”
Yeesh
. “I don’t fight over women. It’s juvenile.” Not to mention stupidly dangerous.

She stuck her tongue in her cheek. “
R-i-i-ight
,” she said, like he was acting so mature.

“Yeah, short stuff. Just remember I know a hundred different ways to kill a man—or a kid sister—that’ll look like they died of natural causes. Besides, I’m not interested in some fancy Boston debutante playing wilderness doctor.”

Hannah looked disgusted and sent him a
yeah, right
look as she gave his shoulder a patronizing pat. She muttered something that sounded like, “Keep telling yourself that, you poor clueless moron,” which he took exception to. But when he demanded she repeat it, she smirked and said, “I’ve got this, big guy. You go off and crawl into your man cave with your denials and delusions. I’m sure the Navy shrinks will be interested to hear you’ve finally gone over the edge.”

Sam snarled something nasty about Navy shrinks, before turning on his heel and heading down the passage towards the back exit. He yanked open the door and slammed it on the sound of her laughter.

Hannah was wrong, he told himself, firing up the engine and shoving the vehicle into first gear. He
didn’t
care if his brother had a “thing” for the fancy doctor. He’d be gone soon and didn’t do relationships that lasted more than a week, tops. He was never around long enough for more. And if the voice in his head told him he was deluding himself, he ignored it since it sounded a lot like his sister. He was just tired.

Yeah
, he thought with a snort of disgust. He was tired all right. Tired of sitting on his ass, waiting for his CO to call. And he was damn sick and tired of trying to convince people he was fine.

* * *

Sam had every intention of heading for the Crash Landing, a rough bar on the other side of town that catered to truckers, loggers and general badasses, but found himself pulling into the hospital parking lot instead.

When he realized where he was, he swore and scowled at the light spilling from the small ER, worried that maybe he
was
as crazy as everyone claimed. Only a crazy man would be sitting outside a hospital, staring at the glowing emergency sign and thinking of a woman whose bedside manner rivaled that of a BUD/S training instructor.

He was also a doctor, for goodness’ sake. He could remove his own damn stitches. Nevertheless, he found himself killing the engine and climbing from the cab.

So he was here. Might as well get them removed. They were starting to itch like crazy anyway.

Sam entered the building, surprised to find the reception deserted. He headed for the emergency treatment rooms but found them empty as well. A little alarmed, he retraced his steps just as a door opened somewhere behind him and before he could turn, a voice called out.

“Be right with you... Oh, Samuel, what a surprise,” Fran Gilbert, a friend of his mother’s, said when she saw him. “Is there a problem?” She was pushing a medicine trolley and looked a little preoccupied. Sam held up his bandaged hand and watched her face clear. “Cassidy will handle that, dear. I’m doing the rounds.”