Along Came Trouble(20)

“They’re kids. They could hardly compete with you.”

When she glanced over, he was smirking at her. Served her right. She’d fished pretty deep for the compliment.

Caleb’s smirk was dead sexy.

Her libido growled and started pacing back and forth across her lower belly.

Don’t look at him, Ellen told herself, but her furtive eyes snatched tidbits to catalog. Shoulders so broad, he just about filled the whole chair. His throat where he’d unbuttoned his shirt. The shadow of stubble on his neck and jaw.

Here was a species of man she had no experience with. She’d always gone for the Heathcliff types, men with wild hair and deep thoughts. Army guys didn’t do it for her. Or they never had before.

Oh, not good. Not good at all.

She couldn’t have him. There was no room in her life for any man, let alone one this . . . big. Even if she had the feminine wiles to capture his attention, what would she do with him?

You’d roll right over and let him take charge.

And then she’d be back at square one, weak-willed and malleable, chained to the whims of another man who didn’t want or respect her enough. No, thanks.

When Jamie had said she should find a boyfriend, he hadn’t meant this at all. Her brother had been thinking of somebody bland and amiable, a Little League coach who’d buy her penne with marinara and give her a peck on the cheek when he dropped her off at home. Whereas Ellen’s interest in Caleb was more of a restless urge for clutching, desperate, sweaty coupling. She wanted, for the first time in three years, to have actual, physical, hot-as-hell sex. With a man.

Not remotely in the cards. But if it were, would he go for it? Was Caleb merely being nice, buttering her up so he could try to slap a fence around her house or whatever it was he thought needed doing?

Her intuition said no. Of course, her intuition had allowed her to marry Richard. She had no reason to trust instincts with such a shitty track record.

Ellen let the back of her head hit the chair with a solid thunk and polished off the rest of her wine. The muddled, murky sip at the very bottom of her glass matched the inside of her head, which suggested she’d already had more wine and more Caleb than were advisable for one evening. She should probably call it a night.

“So were you in the military?”

Whoops. Go to bed, woman.

“What makes you ask?”

“You have that whole bossing-people-around thing going on. And the . . . you know. The physique.”

Oh, dumb. Dumb statement, dumb question, dumb Ellen.

Caleb grinned, and she flushed all over—pink heat in her chest, her cheeks. The tip of her nose, even.

“I was in the military police.”

The military had police? Why had she even asked? She could barely tell one branch of the military from another, much less remember what they all did.

Her confusion must have been obvious, because he said, “It’s part of the army. MPs deal with law-and-order stuff. Like security for soldiers—protecting convoys, bodyguard details for some of the big shots, training and mentoring police in Iraq and Afghanistan. Prison facilities for detainees, too.”

“You did all that?”

He nodded. “Most of it. Convoys, the first time I was over in Iraq, and then personal security detail for an ambassador in the Green Zone on my second deployment. Iraqi Police the third time.”

“I guess this must all seem like small potatoes after that.”

“A mission’s a mission.”

“I’m not your mission.”

“Sure you are.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Playful. “Operation Ellen Callahan.”

“But they always have fancier names than that. Like ‘Desert Eagle’ and ‘Storm Shield.’ ‘Operation Storm Ellen.’” She realized belatedly that she’d just made herself sound like a bunker he needed to crack open and conquer.

“Catchy.”

“Thanks. So what brought you back here, then?”

“Family stuff. And I thought my job was basically done. Not in Afghanistan, maybe, but Iraq was my war. Second time I was over there, it was a complete clusterf*ck—” He glanced at her. “Sorry. It was a mess.”

“You can say ‘f*ck.’”

He smiled. “Still rude, though. My mother would have a fit. Anyway, it was a mess. We got shot at so often when we ran the ambassador out Route Irish to the airport, it became routine. But by the last time I was over there, in Najaf, civilians were walking the streets again. It’s wasn’t totally safe, but it was a lot better. And then the war wrapped up, and the army started focusing too much attention on bullshit again and not enough on training soldiers for combat. So it seemed to me like, time to go, you know? My family needed me, and my platoon really didn’t anymore. Iraq didn’t.” He paused. “Plus, I was really done getting shot at.”