Bound By Temptation by Trish McCallan Page A

sending the sketch artist here,” Lucas said, resting his hands on his thighs.
    Emma focused on the restive tap of his fingers against the faded denim of his jeans, rather than the heat and hunger sparking in his eyes. “I don’t have to go down to the police station?”
    Lucas shook his head and relief lightened her at least ten pounds. She’d dreaded the thought of the trip to the station since her painful waddle up the path to the condo.
    A long, pulsing silence fell and Lucas shifted on the couch, his thigh pressing against her leg. She scooted over a bit more and one of the makeshift ice packs slid off. Leaning over, he caught it and settled it back on her knee.
    “When did you eat last?” Lucas asked.
    “I don’t know. I haven’t kept track.” In a bid to avoid his gaze, she closed her eyes and settled against the armrest, relaxing as the icy vegetable packages numbed her knees. The pressure of his thigh burning into her leg disappeared.
    “Settle back and relax while I rustle something up.”
    His voice sounded a bit more distant with each word, as though he were walking away, even though she didn’t hear any footsteps. She rolled her head to the left and peeked through her lashes as the room fell silent. No sign of Lucas, but judging by the muted thump of cupboards closing and the metallic bang of pots clanging, he was making good on his promise to feed her.
    A short time later the rich, thick scent of French toast reached her. Her stomach clenched with hunger, but not for food—rather an emotional and sensual knotting. He’d made her French toast twice during those three days. The morning following their first night together, and then for dinner, two nights later, after she’d casually mentioned that French toast was one of her favorite dishes.
    Had the meal he’d “rustled up” been an intentional reminder of the weekend they’d spent together? If so, it was working. Memories reeled through her mind. Sensual memories. Hot, heady flashbacks that moistened the flesh between her legs and paralyzed her heart and lungs.
    It was hard to believe that Lucas would go to the trouble of subtly reminding her of what they’d shared, but it was equally hard to believe he’d forgotten what his French Toast had led to all those weeks ago—on both occasions—so why in the world would he make it again?

Chapter Six
    B y the time Lucas returned from showing Rio’s sketch artist out the door, Emma had sunk down on the couch with her ratty terrier stretched blissfully across her chest like an extra blanket. The ugly shadows that had blackened her brown eyes as the sketch took shape had spread across her face. She looked haunted. The artistic rendering of her would-be kidnapper apparently stirred up her earlier anxiety and fear.
    Tenderness snuck up, wrapped around his chest and squeezed, trying to choke him.
    “Hey.” He took a seat on the coffee table beside the couch and leaned toward her, projecting confidence. “You’re safe here. Nobody’s going to get past us to get to you.”
    An odd look flitted across her face, one he couldn’t quite decipher. Maybe doubt? Or disbelief? Both of which made sense. She had no idea what he did for a living, or why he and Tag were so well suited to protect her.
    Silence, when it came to his career, was essential. Not just for his personal safety, but his teammates and their families as well. SEALs were at the top of multiple kill lists. If a terrorist identified him and staked his place out, they’d locate a fair share of his teammates too. From there they could ferret out his teammates’ families.
    Ian, and the guys at the gym? Hell, they were, or had been, in the corps. They knew the price of loose tongues. But civilians? Neighbors? They were oblivious about the dangers of this world. Fuck, he’d been falsifying his career for years in order to satisfy their curiosity.
    With the exception of Tag and a couple of ex-teammates two doors down, nobody in this development