The Marine Next Door (11 page)

He grabbed the medal and dumped it back with the others. Then he quickly scooped up the box and uniforms, shoved them in the front closet and shut the door—taking away any trace that he was a military man…beyond the buzz cut of pecan-brown hair and the proud carriage of those broad shoulders. “It’s just John, remember? You’d better get out of those wet things before dinner gets cold.”

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong. I was just admiring—”

“You didn’t say anything wrong.” He drilled her with a look that told her his words weren’t entirely true.

She’d touched a nerve. But as someone who’d completely fried her own nerves for the day, she understood his need to avoid touchy subjects right now. She headed for the door he held open for her. “Okay, Just John. Thank you—for everything this evening. I’m not used to depending on anyone else.” She wanted to say or do more, but the steely cast to those suddenly cold eyes told her that no apology would be welcome. So she opted for a simple smile and a quick exit. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Chapter Six

11:47 p.m.
John read the time on the table beside his bed and tried to remember the last time he’d gone this long without checking a clock or watch and wondering when something would end—like lying in a burning vehicle and listening to his comrades dying, pushing himself to the limits during a painful physical-therapy session, or working side by side with Meghan Taylor and pretending he didn’t care.

But tonight he hadn’t thought about time. He hadn’t thought about Meghan. He hadn’t really thought much about the war he’d left behind. There’d been no past to grieve or regret, no future to worry about. For a few hours tonight, he’d simply lived in the moment.

Dinner with the Wheelers had been surprisingly relaxing and fun and…distracting. Maggie was true to her word, taking only a few minutes to change and come back. She’d washed away the smudges of mascara that had shadowed the freckles beneath her eyes. And even though she hadn’t released her hair from that practical bun she liked to wear, it was nice to see her in civvies and discover that the curvy hips and butt down below were balanced with equally sweet curves on top.

Not that he’d complimented her or flirted. He’d just noticed. A lot. He’d noticed the way she’d loaded up her corn bread with honey, and then licked the sweet golden mess off her fingers. She was genuinely pretty and unpretentious and crazy about her son.

And yeah, maybe his ego had taken a few strokes when he’d caught a soft smile or curious glance directed his way. But he wasn’t looking for a relationship or date, or even the chance to exercise some of the other parts of his body that hadn’t seen any action since the roadside bomb outside that Afghan village. He didn’t need to be with anyone until he was sure his body could keep up with his brain, and he was certain he could keep the demons that sometimes still haunted him back in the past where they belonged.

Besides, Travis Wheeler had demanded the bulk of his attention at the dinner table. The boy had thoroughly tested John’s knowledge of all things baseball, and only the promise of spending some time in the batting cage with him before his game on Thursday night had finally been enough to let John turn the dinner conversation to something other than sports.

Not that Maggie let the discussion stray to anything deeper than the jovial incompetence of their building super. Joe Standage was as friendly and helpful as they came, but it had already been a comedy of errors when it came to fixing things around here. The elderly lady whose apartment sat kitty-corner from John’s had complained about a leaky toilet and wound up having to replace her entire bathroom floor after a visit from Joe. Then there was the stuck elevator, and the phones that were still out of order. He’d gone down to the basement himself to inspect the leads running through the building. Judging by the sloppy work he’d seen, the super was lucky that his power saw had cut through a telephone line instead of one carrying electricity to the seventh floor. Could the guy in charge of building maintenance really make so many mistakes? Or was someone deliberately sabotaging things on the seventh floor, leaving Joe to clean up afterward?

John had learned several other things about the tenants on the seventh floor. Maggie had warned him to expect gifts of baked good from Miss Applebaum. And that the Wongs would probably not come out of their apartment to interact with him, but that they would somehow know everything that was going on in the building anyway. Bernie Cutlass talked like a grouch, but he’d been a heck of a lot friendlier before his wife of fifty-some years had passed away last year.

John had learned that Travis loved science and math but thought reading was for girls. After the meal, he’d introduced Travis to his library in the living room, earning a hidden thumbs-up from Maggie. Then she’d insisted on putting away the food and loading the dishwasher by herself, urging John to keep her son interested in the books on his shelves. He’d been happy to lend Travis a couple of YA books—one about a dog who was adopted by an Army unit, and a classic fantasy by Madeleine L’Engle.

Inevitably Travis’s curiosity about his injuries came up. And while
transtibial amputation
had tongue-tied the boy, pulling up his pant leg to let him inspect the knee joint and composite rod, as well as letting him inspect the specialized blade prosthetic John used when he was running or working out had kept him talking right up until the moment Maggie had to literally pull him out the door with reminders of brushing teeth and bedtime.

John slipped his bookmark between the pages of the novel he was reading and set it aside to ponder what it was about the family next door that could divert his attention even now that all was quiet on the other side of the bedroom wall that separated his apartment from theirs.

Maggie had been relaxed and friendly at dinner, curious to hear about his sister’s upcoming wedding; sympathetic to learn that he’d lost his parents as a teenager, too. She’d liked his cooking and was surprised to learn that he was the self-taught chef of the family who’d honed his gourmet skills by watching television and preparing dinners for his coworkers at the fire station.

John inhaled a deep, settling breath as he recalled the lines of strain beside those striking green eyes and pale rose lips. Most of Maggie Wheeler’s relaxed charm had been an act.

He speculated about the weird convergence of events surrounding the lady cop. If there were enough strange things going on to make him suspicious, then she must be downright paranoid.

Something about night patrols and trusting his gut and experience more than he trusted his eyes and ears told him there was trouble lurking at the fringes of Maggie’s life. The woman was hiding a secret or two. She’d been terrified that her son had been alone at the ballpark and out of contact with her. She’d mentioned a mysterious man. The woman wore a gun, a badge and body armor, yet she’d just about had a nervous breakdown when that elevator had gotten stuck.

John eyed the stump of his leg beneath the hem of the running shorts he wore to bed. He was hardly the warrior he’d once been, but he had a feeling that woman’s troubles were going to nag at him until he had answers. In every cell of his body he’d been trained to rescue and protect. And while life had altered how he could respond, the instincts were still there.

Maybe that’s all this bout of insomnia was—his instincts warring with his abilities. He was aware that Maggie had stirred something in him—a fact that was playing hell with his long-held assumption that Meghan Taylor was the only female who would ever turn his head. And he knew Maggie was in trouble. But even though her son had invited him into their lives, she hadn’t asked for his help. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what he could do for her beyond volunteering for a little after-school transportation and some male role modeling for Travis.

Would that be enough to satisfy those protective instincts? That need to take action that drummed through his blood? Shouldn’t the offer of neighborly friendship be enough to appease those rusty urges before he embarrassed himself by attempting to do things he was no longer capable of?

A telephone rang in the bedroom behind the thin wall, breaking the silence of the night and giving John his answers.

His hands stiffened into fists at his sides as he glanced at the clock. Midnight. They’d been hours without a line to the outside world, and now, at precisely 12:00 a.m. the phone was ringing in Maggie Wheeler’s bedroom?

He swung a leg and a half off the side of the bed and reached for a shoe and the prosthetic propped against the bedside table. For months he’d attuned his ears to the subtlest nuances of sound, warning him of enemy movement in the middle of the night. For years before that, he’d learned to pick up on the sounds of human distress amidst the popping and crashing sounds of a burning building and roaring fire hose.

John concentrated on the methodical process of twisting the prosthetic into place until the suction of the tailored fit engaged, locking the false leg to his own.

Don’t listen. Don’t eavesdrop. Don’t notice.

But the ringing phone wasn’t half as alarming as the panicked words he couldn’t quite make out, followed by a slamming sound and a scramble through drawers and a closet next door.

He couldn’t wait and wonder. It wasn’t in him to sit and do nothing. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

John pulled the elastic band into place over his knee joint, grabbed his T-shirt from the foot of the bed and hurried out the door. A quick glance up and down the hallway revealed no signs of movement, only shadows and the security light by the elevator doors. Was that…

His eyes zeroed in on the door to the stairwell next to the elevator. Had he imagined that gap between the door and frame? A sliver of light from the landing blinking out as the door closed?

“Hey!” His hopping, hobbling gait got him to the end of the hall in a matter of seconds and he pushed open the swinging steel door. The staccato of running feet echoed up from several stories below. What the hell? John jumped down to the third step in pursuit of whoever had been lurking on their floor. He nearly pitched forward on the fourth step, caught himself on the sixth and slowed his pace to keep his balance as he circled the middle landing.

Frustration poured through his system, telling his body to go faster. Maybe if he’d had on his running leg, he might have a chance of catching the guy. But the perp was speeding up and he was slowing down. John was halfway to the fifth floor when he heard a door slam open down below. The distant door closed again and he knew he’d never be able to catch the guy.

Swallowing his pride and changing strategy, John switched course and jogged back up the stairs. There was still no other sign of activity on the seventh floor when he stopped in front of Maggie’s door. He knocked softly. Knocked again. “Maggie?”

He heard a shuffle of noise from inside the apartment, including one unmistakable rasp and click of metal on metal. John had been in the military long enough to recognize the sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber of a semiautomatic. He stepped to one side of the door, out of the potential line of fire, and knocked again. “Maggie, it’s John. You can lower your weapon. Open up.”

A shadow passed over the peephole, then the chain and dead bolt disengaged and the door opened. Wavy copper hair hung loose and danced over the dotted skin of Maggie’s shoulder. She wore long pajama pants, a pair of tank tops and carried her GLOCK 9 down at her side. She’d opened the door just wide enough to flash him a smile he didn’t buy. “It’s late.”

He wedged his shoulder against the door to keep her from closing it. “Tell me about it. You went to bed an hour ago.”

“How do you know?”

“Old construction and thin walls. Your bedroom butts up to mine.”

Her cheeks flooded with heat, and then he felt her shoving against the door. “Well…stop listening in, you Peeping Tom. Or whatever you call a spy like you.”

What John lacked in speed and grace he made up for in brute strength. He planted his foot, braced his hand against the doorjamb and refused to retreat. “Look, I’m not the only one spying on—”

Her telephone rang again. She was wound up tight enough for him to see the leap of muscles beneath her skin. Then her shoulders sagged with some sort of surrender and she swung open the door. “Come on in. I don’t want to wake Travis.”

John closed the door behind him and threw the dead bolt while Maggie dashed into the kitchen to pick up the phone. “Hello?” He reached the archway into the kitchen in time to see her steady her posture and repeat the greeting. “Hello?”

The color draining from her cheeks told him as much as the gun in her hand that these late-night calls weren’t a wrong number. Without breaking stride or asking permission, John plucked the phone from her hand and demanded an answer. “Who is this?”

A startled huff followed by the sounds of labored breathing were punctuated by a man’s voice. “You can’t have her. She’s mine or nobody’s.”

Adrenaline burned through John’s veins at the stark threat. “Listen, you son of a—”

The line abruptly disconnected.

John replaced the cordless phone in its charger, making a quick note that the woman needed caller ID before facing her. “Maggie?”

“What did he say?” She was staring at the phone, rubbing her free hand up and down her right arm. She shook as though a cruel prankster had just dropped a bucket of ice down her back.

“Doesn’t matter.” John reached out to touch her shoulder and she turned and walked right into his chest. Automatically, his arms wound around her. The thin layers of material between them gave him a clear impression of her healthy curves, shower-fresh scent and trembling fear. It was choice, not instinct, that made him shift his stance to draw her more fully against him and rest his chin at the crown of her soft, fragrant hair.

He didn’t know what kind of danger this woman was facing, but he’d be damned if she’d face it alone. He felt a sob of heat against his neck, but there were no tears falling. She was rattled, stunned, too cold for his liking.