Bound By Seduction (A Red-Hot SEALs Novella Book 2) (5 page)

“Oh yeah, that’s brilliant, dude,” he said, his face twisting into a sneer. “Nothing like having it out with her when you’re all amped up and look like shit.”

Aiden gritted his teeth, wishing he could claim that he hadn’t been headed over to Demi’s place, but yeah—that was exactly where he’d been going. Forcing himself to turn away, he stalked toward the front door. He sure as hell couldn’t stay here.

“Damn it, Aiden, hold up,” Trammel said from behind him.

Aiden kept walking. When he reached the front entrance, a hand closed over his shoulder. Fists lifting, he pivoted, watching as Trammel jumped back with his hands in the air.

“I swear to God,” Trammel snapped, irritation glittering in his dark eyes. “I’ve had it. You swing at me, and I
will
drop you. We clear?” He waited for Aiden’s tight nod. “Good. And Tag’s not wrong. You’re a God damn mess. At least clean up the blood, put an ice pack on that lip, and change shirts.”

The moment the words blood and lip hit the air, his mouth started throbbing. So did his jaw. A trickle crawled down the side of his mouth. Since he couldn’t get his fingers to uncurl, he swiped at it with the back of his hand and stared at the smear of blood sprawled across his wrist. Trammel was right. He did need to clean up. But Jesus, if he ran into Tag inside…with the anger still churning at high boil on both sides…yeah, the condo might not survive another round between them. He’d be smarter to head to Kait’s place, take a shower there, and wait for his blood pressure to fall before hunting down Demi.

He glanced down. His jeans weren’t in bad shape, just a spot or two of blood. His face and shirt had borne the brunt of the abuse. So after a long, hot shower, all he’d need was a fresh shirt.

Lifting his head, he studied Trammel thoughtfully. They were around the same size, and the shirt Trammel was currently wearing looked clean enough.

“You want to make yourself useful?” Aiden asked, lifting his arm and wiggling his stiff, aching fingers. “Give me your shirt.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Trammel tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, his mouth moving like he was silently counting to ten.

“Trust me,” Aiden said grimly. “You don’t want me walking back in that room. Not if that bastard’s still in there.”

Swearing, Trammel dragged his shirt over his head, balled it up, and fired it at Aiden’s head. “I hope to God you’re not headed off to see this girl, because Tag’s right about that too,” he said, watching Aiden snatch the shirt out of the air. “It’s a bad idea. You confront her in your current mood and she’ll never talk to you again.”

Aiden clenched his jaw, another wave of anger rolling through him—only this time it was directed at Trammel. He’d roomed with the asshole for three years; you’d think the bastard would know him by now.

“Relax, Mother—” he snapped. “I’m headed to Kait’s.”

As he pivoted back to the door and yanked it open, he heard Trammel’s relieved grunt sound behind him.

Each step toward his car introduced a new set of aches. By the time he’d unlocked his Mustang and gingerly eased his protesting body inside, he was more interested in a nice, long soak in Kait’s shower than hashing things out with Demi.

Tag claimed that nothing had happened between him and Demi the night before. That he’d picked her up, they’d shared a kiss and he’d dropped her off. Now that some of that red-hot mist had faded from Aiden’s brain, he believed the bastard too.

Tag might be a poacher, but he wasn’t a liar.

Besides, if something had happened between his roommate and Demi the night before Tag would have thrown it at him in the heat of the battle like any good warrior.

Nothing would have hurt like knowing Demi had taken another man into her bed.

Which was the root of the rage he’d directed at Tag. Maybe she hadn’t slept with Tag. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t welcomed some other guy into her bed, or crawled into his. That didn’t mean she hadn’t trolled the bars before, and picked someone else up. That didn’t mean she’d been living like a nun during his last twenty months of deployment.

He swore softly, his fingers rigid around the steering wheel. He’d convinced himself she wasn’t ready for a physical relationship, and that he’d be safe leaving her behind—that she’d be there waiting for him when he returned—like Snow White waiting for her regenerating kiss.

It hadn’t occurred to him that she might go looking for that kiss on her own.

Nor had he thought to question how he’d get past it if she had.

Chapter Three

Yawning, Demi stepped inside the elevator and leaned over to punch the lobby button. With aggravating slowness the doors closed, and after a subtle lurch, the machine began its slow descent.

Seven thirty in the morning was an ungodly hour to be up and about—or at least it was today, after a restless night spent tossing and turning. What she really needed was a gallon of coffee, or an eight hour nap. Or both. Yawning again, she glanced at her wrist watch. The taxi should be waiting below by now. After she dropped the spare set of keys off with the building superintendent, she’d ask the driver to stop somewhere so she could grab a cup of coffee. Although…she grimaced. Chances were, anywhere the driver stopped would have subpar coffee. It was one of the hazards of owning a gourmet coffee stand—nothing tasted as good as the fare she made herself.

Leaning back against the elevator wall, she yawned again and gave serious consideration to canceling the cab and heading back to bed. She could collect her Volkswagen tomorrow, after brewing enough coffee to prop her eyes open.

The lack of competition for car services was the only advantage to starting the day this early—scratch that, maybe not the
only
advantage. There was another distinct advantage. The bar her Volkswagen was parked in front of was closed. At least she wouldn’t have to run the gauntlet of the Tavern’s clientele, or the risk of stumbling into one patron in particular.

Which reminded her of a third advantage: she could collect her car and return home without anyone—read, Kait or Aiden—being the wiser about her incredible bout of foolishness the night before.

What the hell were you thinking, Demi?

But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? She hadn’t been thinking. She’d let her hormones grab the reins and charge willy-nilly toward sexual fulfillment. A mistake on her part, at least on her rational, sensible, let’s-make-decisions with our brain, part. Letting her libido out of the cave and arming it with red had been a dangerous miscalculation. It had proved her hormone-sopped brain had no concept of self-control or rational thinking.

She’d been remarkably lucky. Things could have gone so much worse.

In fact, the night probably would have turned dicey without Brett Taggart’s intervention, which she needed to thank him for when he showed up at her door. He seemed like the kind of guy to return a date’s purse, and while their interaction the night before didn’t exactly fall into the “date,” category, she had left her purse in his truck. At some point he was bound to notice it and use her driver’s license information to track her down. If not, she’d have to track him down.

She straightened as the elevator bell dinged and the lobby panel lit up. With painful slowness the doors slid open to reveal a muscled bare chest with a totally ripped pair of six-pack abs. Her body signaled its appreciation of the artwork, by straightening and flushing.

Now why couldn’t it have reacted to Brett last night with such enthusiasm? She’d bet he had the same muscled chest and abdomen. Maybe that was the key…getting a good look at his naked torso. How politically incorrect would it be to ask him to take his shirt off when he delivered her purse?

It wasn’t often fate provided her with such a perfect example of eye candy, so she took a moment to appreciate the sight. Hell’s bells, the man was gorgeous—sexier than any of those bare-chested dudes on the legions of romance novels Kait devoured by the sackful.

Her hormones whined, expressing their interest by bombarding her poor spine and belly with an assortment of tingles and chills. Heaven help her, even her palms were sweating. Her gaze traveled up his sculpted body with increasing appreciation—please let his face be just as spectacular!—until they hit the first dusky imprint of an ugly bruise, followed by the first smear of blood.

Whoa
…she backed up a bit, and continued her assessment with caution. More bruises shadowed his upper abdomen and lower chest, but it was the next streak of blood that backed her up and extinguished the tingles and chills.

Apparently her hormones and logical brain shared one common characteristic. They were both squeamish at the sight of blood
.
She was outta here.

She sidled to the right, intending to slip past him. He shifted along with her, blocking her passage, which sent the hair on the back of her neck bolting straight up.
Settle down, Demi. He’s not trying to block you in. It was just a coincidence. He simply moved at the same time you did.

She tried to coax some breath into her lungs with that line of reassurance. A coincidence, that’s all. Just a coincidence. He wouldn’t deliberately block her exit from the elevator…would he? Sure, a leashed aura of danger surrounded his ripped physique. But he didn’t emit the crazy vibe, and he’d have to be considerably crazy to try anything in plain view of the lobby.

Clearing her throat politely, she stepped to the right. He mirrored her movement again, blocking her exit. The slow, deliberate countermove stiffened her shoulders. Her eyebrows snapped together. Okay, now the asshole was just toying with her. Scowling, her gaze shot to his face, only to stumble when it fell across a blood crusted chin. A split, bloody lip came into view next, along with red-rinsed swelling along his right cheekbone.

She winced. Hell’s bells, it looked like someone had mistaken this guy’s face for a punching bag. He had to be in too much pain to be planning anything nefarious. The injuries to his face could have affected his vision, too. Maybe he hadn’t even realized he’d blocked her exit. Feeling more charitable, she lifted her gaze and found herself ensnared by a pair of familiar black eyes—glittering, dangerous black eyes.

Swallowing hard, she took a careful step back, scanning the increasingly familiar face. “Aiden?”

What in the world had happened to him?

He stalked forward, directly toward her, backing her up even further. Once he was on the other side of the elevator doors he stopped and reached for the control panel, jabbing the button with his index finger.

Demi swallowed again. There had been a world of controlled fury in that motion. She scanned his battered face more intently. The injuries were fresh…like, an hour fresh. Obviously Aiden was having a bad day. A
very
bad day—or more likely a very bad morning. She debated reminding him that Kait—his sister—lived on the sixth floor. Except, considering how often he visited Kait, he knew where she lived. Then again, maybe the blows to his head had addled his brain a bit.

Should I offer to play nursemaid?

The primitive part of her brain concerned with sex and all things that led to sexual arousal jumped up and down with both metaphorical feet and squealed a resounding
YES! YES! PLEASE!
But the cautious hemisphere of her brain studied the leashed frustration and fury on his face and decided to pass him off to Kait. The elevator bell dinged, reminding Demi that she still had a taxi waiting and a car to collect.

“Well, I gotta run. Remember—Kait lives on the sixth floor, not the fifth,” she said, stepping to the right. “Number 607,” she added, just in case the beating he’d taken had jarred more than the floor number loose.

Instead of correcting the floor choice, he shifted to the right, blocking her exit again.

Frustrated, Demi stopped to glare. “I don’t have time to play these games, you asshole. Let me through.” The elevator doors started to close, and she glared harder. “I’m serious, Aiden, I’m in a hurry.”

“Yeah?” He raised a pitch-black eyebrow and subtly shifted his weight over his feet as though he were prepared to stand there all day. The doors shut. With a jolt, the elevator started to rise. “Where are you headed without your driver’s license or car?”

Without…

For the first time, she noticed the t-shirt slung over his shoulder and something black and shiny and leather tucked under his left armpit. Something that looked frighteningly like her missing purse.

She groaned beneath her breath.

“It’s the perfect size,” he said, pure challenge in his glittering black gaze as he grabbed her purse with his left hand and held it aloft like a football.

Don’t ask, Demi. Don’t ask. Do you really want to know what he’s talking about?

It didn’t help that he seemed to vibrate at some low-level frequency—like a force field that was about to explode and shower her with sparks.

“To carry a whole party pack of rubbers,” he continued, without her participation. “Something to fit everyone.” When she didn’t respond, he raised his thick black eyebrows even higher. “Just how many guys were you planning on picking up last night?”

His question dropped into the elevator like a dare. Or maybe a threat.

She could hardly pretend she didn’t recognize the purse, or know what he was talking about. Her driver’s license was in that purse, and from his fixation on the condoms, there was little doubt that he’d opened the damn thing and recognized who it belonged by her license.