Trust Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 2) Read online

  Trust Under Fire

  Operation: Hot Spot

  Trish McCallan

  Trish McCallan Inc.

  Navy SEAL Lucas Trammel is prepared for everything…except falling in love.

  Hell, ask him to take out an al Shabaab enclave full of terrorists and he’s your guy. But love? Yeah…clearing a minefield is less dangerous. From day one, Emma Janssen has been an unwelcome temptation. Those soft curves, her thousand-watt smile…Did he regret that weekend? Hell no. But black ops and civilians don’t mix. He walked away for her own good. Now her life is at risk and she needs him.

  And this time he’s not walking away.

  He dumped her…broke her heart.

  Seriously? He thinks he can waltz back into her life like nothing happened? Like she hadn’t lost her mind in his bed and her heart in his arms? No Way. Oh, she isn’t stupid—he owes her and she’s in trouble. So, she’ll accept his assistance. But with conditions…no touching, no kissing, no swaggering around the house in loose jeans and tight t-shirts.

  And this time she’s keeping her heart under lock and key.

  This book was previously published as Bound by Temptation

  Copyright © 2016 Trish McCallan

  Cover Design: Frauke Spanuth, Croco Designs

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Model: Jason Dickinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Published by Trish McCallan, Inc

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the following people for their help in producing this book!

  Copy Editing: Jennifer Jakes, The Killion Group, Inc

  Proofing: David Steele

  Formatting: David Steele

  Also by Trish McCallan

  Series: Operation: Hot Spot

  These are military romantic suspense. There are no cliff hangers and each book has a HEA. The books can be read and enjoyed in any order.

  Books in the series:

  Hearts Under Fire

  Trust Under Fire

  Loyalty Under Fire

  Future Under Fire (releases June 2020)

  Hero Under Fire (releases August 2020)

  Series: The Red-Hot SEALs

  This series is complete, and the entire series is for sale. These are military romantic suspense. The first three books end with plot cliffhangers, but the main romance for each book is resolved and each couple gets their HEA.

  To follow the plot and for full enjoyment, these books do need to be read in order.

  Book One- Forged in Fire

  Book Two- Forged in Ash

  Book Three- Forged in Smoke

  Book Four- Forged in Ember

  Series: Dark Falls, CO

  This is a multi-author series set in Lori Ryan’s Dark Falls CO world. Each book is a standalone and features a law enforcement hero or heroine. There are no cliffhangers and the books can be read in any order. My two contributions to this series are:

  Dark Legacy

  Dark Tidings

  Newsletter

  Hey there! Are you interested in new release news, and information on sales and contests? Then sign up for Trish McCallan’s newsletter!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Find Me

  Sneak Peek: Dark Tidings

  Chapter One

  Twilight shadowed the San Diego skyline as Emma Janssen stepped onto the yellowing grass of her postage stamp lawn. Finally, after five days of biting her tongue and biding her time—pacifying herself with weekend promises—Friday night loomed before her.

  She’d been late clocking out of work thanks to a network-wide failure of the hospital computer system. While most of the IT department had grumbled about interrupted weekend plans, she’d been grateful for the overtime. Those two hours of time and a half would add a thin layer of padding to her apathetic savings account.

  At least until her temperamental house threw the next round of mechanical meltdowns.

  Trudging up the hill otherwise known as her lawn, she pushed limp bangs out of her eyes. That haircut she’d been promising herself for the past six weeks had become a priority. When her hair started attacking her eyeballs it was time for an intervention. But first things first, like a quick dinner and a long movie. Or maybe a lengthy soak in the tub while knocking back some wine and immersing herself in the latest Nicholas Sparks novel.

  A love story where the hero or heroine—or both—bit the big one would fit her mood perfectly.

  She paused in front of the stairs to her front porch to rummage through her purse for her keys and breathed in the fruity scent of honeysuckle. The shrubs grew profusely to the right and left of the staircase, camouflaging her diminutive home and saturating the air with neural sedatives released by hundreds of stringy, white flowers.

  Her tense muscles relaxed as the perfume hit her lungs. The stress accumulated through eight hours of ringing phones and grumpy hospital staff eased. Quite possibly that delicious smell and the momentary peace the flowers offered had influenced her decision to put an offer in on this house.

  She should never have gone house hunting in the spring.

  Of course the lazy-glide swing that stretched from wall to rail across the left side of the porch carried a good share of the blame for her early, misplaced crush on this place. Or at least the sweet scent of honeysuckle, the dreamy swing, and the brick fireplace inside the living room had combined to paralyze her good judgement, allowing her to gloss over the house’s size limitations and big price tag.

  Obviously it hadn’t been fiscally responsible to base her house buying decision on daydreams of midnight cuddles on that swing while the diamond chipped sky spun lazily overhead.

  But then she hadn’t been alone on that swing—had she?

  Noooooooooo.

  Shaking her head, she glared at the offending swing as she climbed the stairs. And that right there had been the whole problem. She’d still been firmly bound by the heady, sensual temptation of one Lucas Trammel. Infected by the three nights she’d spent beneath his hot body or caged in his muscled arms. Plagued by memories of his hard chest rubbing against hers, his minty breath in her mouth, his body driving her into orgasm after orgasm.

  Those seventy-two hours in Lucas Trammel’s bed had sucked the intelligence right out of her brain and spun her pragmatic nature into a mushy romantic daydreamer.

  That particular hookup couldn’t have come at a worse time. Dazed by mind-numbing, oh-my-God-yes-Yes-YES sex and a sudden predilection for the romantic, she’d taken one look at this place and let the Craftsman charm sucker punch her.

  Three months later, Lucas was long gone and the rosy glow surrounding her house had faded. Sure the swing was lovely, maybe even heavenly, for the two minutes she had a chance to enjoy it before the bugs and he
at drove her back inside her petite—read minuscule—home.

  Stepping onto the porch, she turned to scowl at the oblong planters of fuchsias and pansies lining the railings. Drat! Judging by the various stages of wilting she needed to water.

  Again.

  Sometimes it felt like she spent every free moment watering the baskets of flowers along with the honeysuckle down below. Besides the time investment, it wasn’t exactly cheap keeping the flowers all perky, what with the price of water these days. What the heck had she been thinking, anyway? Her lethal fascination with flowering plants was well documented by the dozens of empty pots she’d tossed in the garbage before the big move. Good Lord, she’d already managed to destroy three of the five cactuses her work mates had given her as house warming gifts—and cactuses were notoriously difficult to kill.

  Sighing, she shifted uncomfortably in her sticky blouse and slacks. Might as well change out of her work clothes and into something lighter and less confining before tackling the retractable hose.

  The key stuck halfway into the lock, one of her new home’s more annoying quirks. She tussled with the key, forcing it deeper and breaking a fingernail in the process.

  Son-of-a-drat.

  She grimaced as she sucked on the nail which had fractured all the way to the pink bed and stung like the devil. Enough of this. First thing tomorrow she’d see about replacing that lock—cost be damned. This was the second fingernail she’d lost to the freaking thing.

  Shouldering open the reluctant door, she slapped on the light switch and stepped inside her claustrophobic foyer. As she twisted to shut the door behind her she caught movement out of the corner of her eye—a tangled blur of …something… skittering through the shadows looming in front of her.

  What the?

  She jerked back to face the living room, every muscle tensing.

  Her couch was shoved over on its back, the leather upholstery sliced and ratty, its fluffy white intestines strewn everywhere.

  She froze in shock.

  Picture frames lay splintered amid slashed canvases and fragmented glass.

  Someone had ransacked her home. The realization slammed into her with the force of a fist to the chest. Her breath hitched as a pained wheeze rattled up her throat and out her gaping mouth.

  She stepped back, her stomach twisting into a hard knot. A weird buzzing filled her head.

  Someone had been in her house.

  Who? Why?

  Her gaze drifted from item to item. Disbelief flooded her.

  The stained glass lamp her cousin had given her was shattered. Her bookshelf overturned, its paperback cargo littering the ground beneath it. Her collection of colorful ceramic frogs lay pulverized across the hardwood floor.

  Another of those raw gasps cauterized the length of her throat and then the shock vanished beneath a blast of fear. She went queasy and lightheaded in an instant.

  Are they still here? Are they hiding? Are they waiting for me?

  That blurred sense of movement from earlier slammed into her mind. She backed up, a thin sheen of sweat slicking her spine.

  Get out of the house. Into the car. Call the police.

  She spun and ran. As she fled through the door, across the porch and down the hill to the street, her skin twitched beneath the certainty that someone was about to grab her from behind.

  Ten seconds later, safely locked in her car, Emma fought to control her ragged breathing. It took a few seconds to remember that her purse was still clutched against her side, which meant her cell phone was only a zipper away. As she unearthed her phone and hit 911, she stared up the hill at her house. She’d loved the richness of the gray exterior against the charcoal trim up until about two seconds ago. Now it looked foreboding. Add in the dark windows on either side of the porch along with the wide open door and the atmosphere shifted from ominous to malevolent.

  A shimmer seemed to swim across the glass pane. Was the movement a figment of her imagination? Or was someone in there watching her?

  “911, what’s the location of your emergency?” a nasal female voice asked.

  Emma recited her name and address, surprised at how calm she sounded.

  “Your phone number—in the event we get disconnected?”

  She pulled back from her cell in surprise. Didn’t the emergency services have caller I.D.? But she dutifully recited her number.

  “What’s the nature of your emergency?” the operator asked after a moment.

  “Someone broke into my house,” Emma said, the sudden hard knock of her heart catching her off guard, as though simply mentioning the break-in had churned all the emotions up again.

  “Are you in the house now?”

  “No. I’m in my car.”

  “The make and model of your car?”

  She rattled off her car information and then glanced at her ransacked house again. Another shadow, or shimmer, or something…or maybe nothing… wisped across the blank pane. She stared so hard her eyes burned, but nothing disturbed the darkened window again. Maybe the movement had been the reflection from one of her neighbor’s trees or the angle of the window. Or …yeah…a figment of her imagination.

  “I’ve dispatched the closest unit to your location,” the 911 operator said. “I’ll remain on line. Let me know when they arrive.”

  Emma murmured an agreement, her eyes still locked on her house’s right window.

  A few minutes later a black and white SUV with strobes flashing rounded the street corner and headed toward her. The lights from the strobes ricocheted off windows and mailboxes and lit the pavement with cascading rainbows of reds and blues. As the SUV drew closer she could see two blue-suited officers in the front seats.

  “They’re here,” she said into her phone, watching the cruiser park nose to nose with her sedan. “Thank you for your help.”

  The police car’s doors opened as she disconnected the call and two officers emerged. The driver—a tall, lean, absolutely stunning guy with black hair and the kind of intrinsic style that made his heavy uniform look like he was wearing Armani—paused to glance around. His survey encompassed everything from her car, to her house’s gaping front door, to the neighbors watching through their window blinds.

  After one final look up the hill toward her house, Officer Gorgeous headed toward her with the economical, easy stride of someone in peak condition. Which reminded her of Lucas. Which pissed her off.

  Fate had just gifted her with a ten on the masculine Richter scale and she was mooning over the asshole who’d used and then dumped her?

  Way to show some pride, Emma.

  Officer Tall, Dark and Toe Curling rapped on the driver’s window. But when she pressed the button to roll the window down nothing happened.

  Duh, the engine has to be on for the electrical windows to work.

  Flustered, she shoved the key in the ignition and cranked the motor as Officer Impatient rapped again, even harder. When the engine roared to life, he stopped in mid-rap and stepped back, his hand shifting to settle on the gun holstered against his side.

  Emma hit the button to roll the window down and turned off the motor, watching the officer step up to her car again. Up close the guy was even better looking. He had the high, chiseled cheekbones of a model. But his eyes…Holy Moses…his eyes were a deep blue-gray, ringed by thick black lashes. They were the kind of eyes that people paid a fortune to fake, with the kind of eyelashes that inspired a thriving, billion-dollar industry. The combination should have sent chills, and thrills, and sexual tingling coursing through her body. Should have…but didn’t.

  “Are you the person who called 911?” he asked, leaning down to study her with those arresting eyes.

  “Yes. I’m Emma Janssen,” she said, still reeling under the realization that her libido was apparently immune to the most gorgeous specimen of manhood she’d ever encountered.

  How was that possible?

  She shied away from the obvious answer.

  “Could I see some identificatio
n?” His voice carried a flat, authoritarian tone.

  “Of course.” She fumbled through her purse for her wallet and pulled out her driver’s license, handing it through the window to him.

  He tilted it slightly, studying the small, rectangle of plastic and then her face. Thick black eyebrows rose. “The address on your license doesn’t match the address you gave the 911 operator.”

  For the first time, she looked past the color of his eyes to their blank, cold expression. The frost sheening the blue-gray brought a shiver. She subtracted two points from his score on the masculine Richter scale.

  “I bought the house two months ago. I haven’t had time to update my address at the DMV.”

  He didn’t respond, just pivoted and handed the license to his partner, who turned and walked back to their squad car. To run her license no doubt. Why that surprised her, she wasn’t sure—of course they’d have to check her out. Still, gorgeous or not, the guy was becoming less appealing by the minute.

  “What’s the problem?” The coldness in his eyes had filtered into his voice.

  “Someone broke into my house,” she said.

  The 911 operator must have told him what the call had been about, so why the questions?

  He straightened to study her house over the top of her car. “Tell me everything that happened.”

  “I arrived home about eight and unlocked the door to find my place trashed.” Her voice hitched. “Everything’s broken, the couch slashed. My collectibles shattered. My pictures all ruined—” Her voice climbed and then broke.