Bound By Temptation Read online

  “Copy,” he said, turning his head toward the microphone.

  Another cruiser wheeled around the corner of the street. Only this one’s strobes were dark. It parked behind the first police car and two more blue-suited officers climbed out. They joined Addario’s partner, along with a small crowd of gathering neighbors, on the sidewalk.

  Addario glanced down. “We’ll check it out. Please remain in your vehicle.”

  The please was definitely not a request, more like a command.

  As if there was any chance she’d follow them inside; she wasn’t stupid for Pete’s sake.

  The four men split up, Addario and his partner climbing the steps to the porch, while the two officers from the second cruiser disappeared through the gate. With guns drawn and flashlights held up beside their heads, the two men on the porch disappeared inside her house.

  For a moment it looked like Dick Sampson, her neighbor from the house immediately to her right, was going to approach her. But he was distracted by the widow Ester, who clung to his arm with grasping, white knuckled fingers.

  The cops seemed to be gone forever, although in reality it was probably only a few minutes. Emma waited with hushed breath for the sound of gun fire, but the street remained silent and empty.

  Finally, Addario’s shorter, stockier partner appeared on the porch and started down the stairs. At some point between entering and exiting her house he’d holstered his weapon and flashlight.

  “Looks like they entered by taking a crow bar to the kitchen door,” he said as soon as he reached her car. He leaned down to catch her eyes, his gaze downright balmy in comparison to his arctic freeze of a partner. “Whoever trashed the place is gone, but you’ll need to come inside. See if anything’s missing.”

  Emma nodded. Thrusting open her car door, she clamped her purse against her side, ignored the audience of interested neighbors and marched around her vehicle. Her legs worked just fine on the climb up her yard and onto the porch, but once the front entrance loomed ahead, her feet apparently sprouted roots and dug in deep.

  Giving herself an excuse for her sudden stillness, she riffled through her purse, eventually pulling out a small notebook and pen. In big black letters she wrote new couch on the note pad—lamp, picture frames, coffee table quickly joined the couch. As her list took shape, the erratic beat of her heart settled, and her feet released their death grip on the porch. Girding herself, she stepped through the door.

  The destruction in the living room had already been confronted, so the shock wasn’t as visceral this time. But the kitchen. She cringed as soon as it came into view.

  The kitchen door splintered and gaping…Cupboards thrown open, some torn off their hinges…pots and pans tossed everywhere…the microwave disemboweled…plates, bowls, glasses shattered… the Christmas cactus and jade plant ripped from their pots and tossed upon rich piles of dirt while their ceramic pots lie broken to the side.

  Her fingers shook as she added new kitchen door and pots to her growing list.

  Why would anyone upend her plants? That was just plain cruel.

  “I don’t think they took anything from the kitchen or living room,” she told the officer accompanying her, trying to keep her mind focused on her list and not how much it was going to cost to replace everything.

  Thank God she hadn’t dropped her homeowner’s insurance. But how much of the damage would her policy cover? Panic fluttered in her chest. She concentrated on taking deep even breaths.

  “Check the bedrooms and bathroom,” the officer said, a world of cynicism on his face and in his voice. “They were probably after jewelry or drugs. Items that are easily pawned, or sold on the streets.”

  At the mention of jewelry, Emma’s heart shot into hyper drive. She’d inherited her mother’s jewelry and while the pieces weren’t all that valuable, they were 24K gold. Her stomach churned at the thought of them being sold to strangers or melted down for profit.

  Her chest tight, dread weighing down her legs, she picked her way back through the living room. She went numb upon entering her bedroom. Her mattress and box springs had been shoved against the walls and completely gutted.

  New bed went on her list.

  A golden glitter caught her attention across the room. She stepped over heaps of clothing for a closer look. To her delighted surprise, one of her mother’s favorite necklaces laid half buried beneath a mound of panties. Considering the mayhem surrounding it, the fragile gold chain and silver Celtic knot were surprisingly intact. She pushed the underwear aside and found the rest of the jewelry in a tangled heap.

  Although relieved to find all her mother’s jewelry untouched, their presence made no sense. Why would anyone go to all this trouble and then not take anything of value? A chill wound through her. Slowly she rose to her feet.

  “Anything missing?” a flat voice asked from the door to her bedroom.

  She knew who it was before she turned her head. “No, and most of this is 24 karat gold and pure silver. Why wouldn’t they take them?”

  “Because they were looking for something specific,” Dante Addario said, suspicion sheening his glacial gaze. “This wasn’t a random burglary. They were after something.”

  “This wasn’t a robbery at all,” Emma said slowly. “From what I can tell they didn’t take anything.” She shook her head, confusion swirling through her. “Could they have been looking for prescriptions or something?”

  “There’s a full vial of expired oxycodone in your medicine cabinet.”

  Apparently that meant no—they hadn’t been looking for drugs.

  “They were searching for something,” Addario said again, a flat look stamped across his chiseled cheekbones. For someone who exhibited no expression, the man sure radiated suspicion. Of her.

  “I don’t know what they were after.” She firmed her voice and confronted her accuser head on.

  “Drugs and money are the most likely suspects,” he responded coolly.

  Something told her he wasn’t talking about prescription drugs.

  “I wish,” she snapped. At least when it came to the money.

  When his eyebrows rose, she blew out a frustrated breath and regrouped. “Maybe they hit the wrong house. Or maybe they didn’t know the house had sold. They were probably after someone else.”

  He shrugged, but the unconvinced look in his eyes told her he didn’t buy that theory for a San Diego minute.

  Okay, say he was right. Say someone had targeted her house for a specific reason—a specific item. From the shape her home was in, they obviously hadn’t found it.

  Pure ice bit into her spine as the terrifying, but logical progression of possibilities unfolded in her mind. If they thought she had something of value, and they hadn’t found it the first time, what would they do? She went light headed and queasy.

  For the first time, concern touched his face. He straightened sharply from his slouch against the door jamb.

  “What if they come back?” She didn’t try to hide the building fear.

  He frowned, absently shoving his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants. “I’ll order more patrols in this neighborhood. But it wouldn’t hurt to get an alarm system.”

  An alarm?

  She glanced down at the increasingly long list of items in her notebook. There was a good chance her insurance wouldn’t cover everything, which meant she wouldn’t be able to replace everything she’d lost, let alone purchase and pay to maintain an alarm system. Granted, she could cross the couch off the list since she’d have seating once Samantha delivered the reupholstered loveseat. But that was peanuts compared to everything that had been destroyed.

  A hot flush invaded her face, along with the sting of tears. She gritted her teeth and sucked back a thick breath. She would not cry in front of this cold-hearted, suspicious bastard. No she would not.

  “If you can’t swing an alarm system, get a dog,” Addario said, his voice softening. “Just make sure it’s a big one, with a threatening bark. Studies sug
gest barking dogs are as strong a deterrent to thieves as alarm systems.”

  A dog.

  She took a deep, cleansing breath. She could afford a dog. She’d planned to get a pet anyway, although she’d been leaning toward a cat. But a dog—her heart rate settled—a dog would warn her if someone tried to break into the house. It might even protect her.

  Another deep, calming breath and her mind started working again. She couldn’t stay here tonight; she’d have to check into a motel. And then first thing tomorrow morning she’d visit the nearest gun store and see how much a revolver cost—preferably a used one.

  Because she sure as heck wasn’t trusting her life to increased police patrols, or even a dog for that matter.

  Chapter Two

  Lucas Trammel threw a hard left cross, followed by a liver shot to the battered, leather punching bag before backing off with a bob and weave. The metallic clang of weights hitting bars, guttural groans, and adrenaline fueled shouts rolled over him as he closed in on the bag again. The sounds were familiar and relaxing, a reminder he was on stand down and working out at an actual gym instead of throwing punches at the sand stuffed canvas bag he had to make do with while out on rotation.

  “Hey, Frog Boy,” Ian McGraff, the Semper-Fi sniper turned gym owner, rasped in his ten pack a day voice. “That candy assed piece of shit you call a phone’s been buzzing non-stop for the last five minutes.”

  Dropping his gloved fists, Lucas rubbed his streaming forehead against the soaked t-shirt sticking to his shoulder.

  He was supposed to be free and clear for the week, but that didn’t mean shit in his line of work. There was always the possibility that somewhere in this Godforsaken world some sensitive situation would rocket into FUBAR, and the call would go out to gather his team so they could rectify the situation. If such were the case, he had an hour to answer the summons and contact HQ, which meant his cell phone was permanently attached to his ass.

  He used his teeth to loosen the laces on the gloves.

  “Don’t be an ass,” Ian said, walking toward him with the hitching gait of someone who’d had his hips blown to hell and pieced back together with metal and wire. The retired warrior yanked on the laces and then worked the gloves off. “You damn SEALs…think you’re so tough you can’t ask for help.”

  Lucas raised his eyebrows. The core philosophy of BUD/s and SQ Training was team work, which by definition meant accepting help when necessary. Still, he jumped in to play his role in the endless razzing between service branches. “I guess that’s what separates an operator from a grunt, we’re so damn good we don’t need help.”

  Ian snorted. “You tell yourself that, Frog Boy.” He knocked the two gloves together. “Wouldn’t want you to start wondering if you joined the wrong team now, would we?”

  “God forbid,” Lucas said dryly, using the towel draped around his neck to wipe his streaming face, “that HQ1 wouldn’t have me, and I’d been forced to join you boys in all your Semper Fi posturing.”

  With another snort and a muttered “posturing, my ass,” Ian limped away in his painfully choppy stride.

  After another thorough face mopping, Lucas ambled over to the wood bench that housed his phone, wallet, and keys. Missed call, along with a phone number, showed up on the display screen of his cell, but the call hadn’t come from HQ. The number looked familiar though.

  It had been so long since he talked to the owner of that particular phone number, it took him a second to place it. When recognition finally hit, a slow, expectant smile curved his lips.

  He’d bet his trident that number belonged to Rio. Hell, it must be close to two years since he’d last heard from the bastard. He didn’t bother to check his voice mail, simply collected his wallet and keys and headed for the red exit sign.

  The heavy steel door closed behind him as he hit the little green phone icon next to the missed call message. The sound of clanking equipment and shouts gave way to a dial tone and then a voice.

  “Addario,” his old teammate said, his voice as smooth and cool as ever.

  “Let me guess,” Lucas’s grin broadened, “you’ve had enough playing cops and robbers and want your seat back in the Zodiac?”

  “Rocky?” The chill in the smooth voice vanished.

  Lucas grinned, Rio was pretty much the only one who used that particular nick name these days.

  “Now why the hell would I want that?” Rio continued. “Bouncing between frigid and scorching, living like a vampire, all the terrorists in the world and half their cousins after me?” Lucas could almost see the lean-shouldered shrug that accompanied the response. “Hell no. I like where I ended up just fine.”

  How much of that was accurate, Lucas couldn’t say. True enough about the perils of the job, but Rio hadn’t left the teams because of that. He’d left because his grandmother, who’d raised him, had terminal cancer, and he wasn’t about to let her die alone.

  “So what the hell you been up to pretty boy?” Lucas asked. “It’s been what? Two years?”

  “That’s Sergeant pretty boy to you, and it’s closer to three,” Rio said thoughtfully, but then his voice lightened. “Unfortunately, not long enough to forget your ugly mug. You, Winchester, and Tag still living together?”

  “Aiden moved out,” Lucas said. Unlocking and opening his Jeep’s driver’s door, he leaned in to toss his wallet onto the passenger seat.

  Rio paused, and a different tone entered his voice, closer to chilly again. “You still at those condos out on Pacific?

  Curious about the change in tone, Lucas straightened and cocked his head. “I am, why you asking?”

  “Because I caught a case and the woman involved lived a couple units over from you until two months ago.”

  Ahhhhh. A woman had put that polar vortex in his buddy’s voice. Hardly a surprise—while women flocked to Rio like fruit flies to cantaloupe, Addario had a chip on his shoulder the size of Montana when it came to the opposite sex. Kind of surprising considering how devoted he’d been to the grandmother who’d raised him.

  And then the rest of Rio’s explanation registered. He went still.

  A couple units over…two months ago.

  His muscles tensed.

  I caught a case…

  His heart accelerated. A hot, static charge prickled up his spine and over his scalp.

  Emma. He has to be talking about Emma.

  “Is she okay?” The question shot out hard and fast. Urgent.

  From the pause that followed his query, his reaction had come as a surprise. Hell, to himself as well. He’d convinced himself that he’d cast Emma out of his mind.

  When a sharp sting pierced his right palm, he slowly opened his hand and discovered his keys had bit so deeply into his palm they’d drawn blood. He’d pushed her out of his life, admittedly—but out of his mind? Apparently that belief was more along the lines of wishful thinking.

  “She’s fine. Just ran into some excitement,” Rio said and Lucas could almost see those pitch black eyebrows rise. “You know her?”

  The question came slowly, thoughtfully. No doubt the clever bastard was connecting too damn many dots and drawing himself a picture.

  “Emma Janssen?” Lucas asked, striving for a casual tone and failing miserably.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Then yeah—” Lucas worked to smooth the roughness from his voice “—I know her.”

  Smooth, soft skin gliding beneath his hands…her body coiling beneath his as her orgasm rolled through her…her throaty cries echoing in his ears…

  He shook the memories away with a shudder. Oh yeah, he knew her. In every sense of the word. For the past three months he’d been trying like hell to forget just how …intimately…he knew her.

  Shoving tense fingers through his hair, he scowled. “You want to tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

  Another of those long meaningful pauses. “How well do you know her?”

  “She’s a friend.” Although that assessment no longer
described their association. Lucas cleared his throat. “She lived next door for a couple years. I haven’t seen her since she moved.”

  And damned if avoiding her hadn’t been an exercise in mental control—forcing himself not to return her calls, forcing himself not to track her down, forcing himself to leave her the fuck alone.

  Letting her go had taken more grit and determination than plowing through BUD/s and SQ Training combined. After one taste of her, or more like three incredible nights, she’d possessed him—taken over his body, mind, and soul.

  If he hadn’t gotten the call to bug out that Monday morning…if she hadn’t moved before he’d returned home—hell, he’d have settled in as a fixture in her bed. A fixture in her life. The male half of a couple. They would have tumbled into a relationship.

  He hadn’t even realized how far he’d fallen until he’d gotten some distance from her, until her taste and scent and feel of her skin against his were no longer available to short circuit his brain. Only then had he realized where they were headed and what a disaster it would be.

  He was military, and she was not. She had no clue what hooking up with him would put her through. Hell, she didn’t even know he was on the teams, or what his job actually entitled. She had no clue how many sleepless, agonizing nights she’d face if they became a thing. She had no clue what it meant to date an operator, or Christ almighty, marry into the teams. Fuck, most of the time she wouldn’t even know where he was or what he was doing. Just like his mother and sister-in-law, she’d spend her days and nights terrified a black SUV full of somber faced men decorated in ribbons and medals—or God forbid, white collars—would pull up in front of their house.

  He’d watched far too many relationships, including his parents’ and brother’s, disintegrate because of the uncertainty inherent in his chosen profession. Love and hatred were interchangeable when fear twisted love into bitterness and betrayal. No way in hell was he putting them through that, even if it meant cutting her out of his life completely.