Maybe it was April Fools’. Maybe it was a mistake. But so what? As a female, more than eighty percent of her decisions that involved the male sex would be a mistake. As an actuary who calculated life and death expectancies on a daily basis, Devon believed in always playing the odds.
After she opened the door, the first thing she noticed was the blood that trailed down from the bridge of his nose, and meandered along his cheek. It was a nice cheek, innocent and undeserving of blood caused by her. Automatically she reached for the first-aid kit on the wooden cabinet nearby, and then handed him an antiseptic wipe and a piece of gauze.
She hoped he’d had all his shots. Yes, her front door was made of steel, and tetanus shouldn’t be a problem, but Devon wouldn’t be surprised if a rusty nail hadn’t winged its way to her home sometime in the last few hours.
The man wiped away the blood and then waved a casual hand. “No problem. No boyfriend?” he asked, and she noticed the steady watchfulness in his gaze. Not as tipsy as she had thought.
“I have an alarm system,” she answered, pointing to the big red button. “It’s very good. One wrong move, and you will be eviscerated.”
“I assure you, there are no evisceration plans in my future. I’m fingerprinted and on file with the U.S. Air Force, and they’ll mostly vouch for my sterling character, although don’t ask about last Halloween and the colonel. He’s still a little touchy. Right now, I just need to use the phone, and then I’ll be…” Gazing down at his leg, he winced, and then pulled at the chain with one powerful hand, creating that fingernails-on-the-chalkboard dragging noise that she’d heard earlier.
The noise was almost worth the visual. While she watched his strong movements, thigh muscles bulking underneath faded jeans, biceps enlarging and then elongating with each tug of the chain, tension featured on his face much like a man in the throes of…
of…
of…
…orgasm. Yes, orgasm was what they called it.
A momentary twinge of nostalgia started in her brain and then settled happily between her thighs.
The heavy black ball left tread marks on the linoleum. Permanent tread marks that would be impossible to clean up. Still, linoleum could be replaced, and frankly, Devon was currently enjoying these twinges. Later, there would be some sort of penance, but her insurance (home, life, car, flood, travel) was paid.
“Are you getting married?” she asked, the cultural implications of a ball and chain just sinking in.
He looked at her, horror in his eyes, and then seemed to pick up on her thoughts. “Not me. I’m not that stupid. The ball and chain was for the groom. It was my idea, but I got double-crossed. Damned tequila.”
Her mouth twitched, nearly curved into a smile. What a dilemma, and here was a man who defied gravity in million-dollar flying machines designed to protect his country and the lives of innocent citizens the world over.
In Devon’s opinion, hero was merely another word for fool.
And yet he was also a man who took his pranks seriously, but when outpranked, took it in stride. Refreshing.
She schooled her features into something not quite so admiring. “And you got chained up instead?”
“Bastards,” he answered with a grin. “Retribution will be sweet, swift, using methods unsanctioned by the CIA. Phone?” His deliberate gaze took in her small, tidy, kitchen, took in her small, tidy house, but she noticed how carefully his eyes did not take in the small, tidiness of her.
She was accustomed to it and had settled into a peaceful acceptance of her solitary existence. Was she pretty? Yes. Was she worthy of a flirty wink or a cat-call? Yes. Was she worthy of risking a car off the cliff or a seemingly demonic attack dog? Not a chance in hell.
Calamities such as what she termed the Cujo incident—sometimes in the presence of the opposite sex—were why her evening attire was a thigh-length flannel nightgown (flame-retardant), why her brown hair was tied back in a very practical long braid (she was too vain to cut it off), why wool socks had a hole in the right toe (currently hidden by the skid-proof slippers), why he wasn’t hitting on her…
“The phone’s over there,” she muttered, pointing toward the old princess-style phone with a frankly cranky finger.
Up until this moment, she’d considered herself above the superficiality of the eternal quest for male companionship. It worried her that now, in the presence of a lust-worthy serviceman tied to a ball and chain, she might be devolving—condemning herself to a life of women’s magazines, drawers full of mascara, cottage cheese and, worst of all, exercise. Seventy-eight percent of all weight lost came back on. Exercise was futile, it was painful. In the end, Cujo was preferable.