Back in Service. Isabel Sharpe

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      “How is your appetite?”

      “Outstanding.”

      “Any weight gain or loss?”

      “Neither.”

      “Energy level?”

      “High.”

      “Sexual function?”

      “Hey.” He glared at her, wondering what she’d been scribbling on her sheet. “None of your business.”

      “Okay.” She scrawled again.

      “Are we done yet?”

      Kendra lifted the clipboard to read. “Subject is exhibiting clear signs of depression, including sleeplessness, minimal appetite, weight loss and lethargy.”

      Right on all counts. How the hell did she know?

      “He is also impotent.”

      Jameson bristled. “I am not impotent.”

      “Don’t worry.” She turned that sweet grin on him. This time she was really smiling. It made him want to smile back. Or growl at her. Or kiss her. “I won’t tell.”

      “Kendra...”

      “Teasing.” Her smile grew wider. “I didn’t really write that you were.”

      “You—” She’d gotten him. Fair game. “Is part of your treatment plan to make me want to toss you off my balcony?”

      “If necessary.” She capped her pen and tucked it back into the top of the clipboard. “How is your family reacting to your disability?”

      “Fine.”

      “How is your dad reacting to your disability?”

      He felt a rush of anger, first at his dad, then at her. She had no right to question him about any of this. “Dad supports me no matter what.”

      She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought.”

      Jameson swallowed. He felt a loss, almost a betrayal, as if he assumed she’d be able to see through that lie, too, and offer him—

      What? A widdle huggy-wuggums?

      For God’s sake, get a grip, airman.

      “How are your brothers coping with your—”

      “Disability. They are also very happy for me.” His knee was throbbing. He took hold of his thigh with both hands and swung the leg up to rest on the pile of Mike’s GQ magazines he’d arranged so he could elevate his injury. “I mean they are also supportive. At all times.”

      “I remember that about your brothers.”

      Her tone was quiet, but he sensed the steel in it. A pang of guilt lessened his anger. Kendra knew Mark and Hayden. For years he’d been their puppet, admiring their dadlike toughness and what he’d perceived then as leadership. In college ROTC and basic training he’d learned that a true leader inspired and respected his men. That’s the kind of leader Jameson wanted to be in the Air Force. A new kind of Cartwright.

      But it looked as if he bloody well wouldn’t get the chance for nearly another year. Possibly not at all.

      He shifted in frustration, causing a landslide in the pile of magazines under his foot. His leg fell, twisting, onto the table with a thud that shot pain from his knee to his hip.

      He was dimly aware of Kendra running from the room. She was back beside him so quickly he wondered if he’d blacked out.

      “Here you go. This should help.” He felt the chill of a cold pack over his knee, then through the lingering haze of pain, the blessed cool of a wet cloth across his forehead and a warm hand on his shoulder. “Should I call someone? Can I get you meds?”

      He shook his head, which was clearing rapidly at her touch. He didn’t need baby nursing. “I’m fine.”

      “Oh, yeah, I can tell. You’re in perfect shape.” Her voice was exasperated. “Here. Let me at least do this.”

      She sat on the coffee table and gently lifted his leg into her lap, somehow managing not to hurt him or disturb the cold pack.

      “What are you doing?” He was unnecessarily snappy from the pain and oddly panicky for some other reason he couldn’t identify.

      “I’m going to aim karate chops at your knee until you tell me the location of the missing computer chip.”

      What the—

      She didn’t, of course. He didn’t expect her to. But he also didn’t expect what she did do. Carefully but firmly, she began to massage his feet through his socks, which, thank God, were clean that morning.

      Her touch was magical, finding and tending to places in his toes, the arch of his foot, his heel, places he didn’t realize were in such desperate need of attention. Slowly, the tension and pain in his body started to ease, began to be replaced by relaxation and pleasure.

      Wait, what the hell was he doing letting Kendra Lonergan touch his feet?

      “Uh, yeah, thanks, that’s fine. I’m fine.”

      “Good.” She didn’t stop, moved upward, tackling the tight muscles of his ankles, his calves, along his shins.

      It was helping. Doggone, it was helping. That spot...there, oh, yeah.

      But it drove him crazy that she still wasn’t listening to him, that he felt, once again, out of control around this woman, out of his element. “You can stop now, Kendra.”

      “I know.” She lifted his leg and put it back on the coffee table, leaving his foot and lower leg tingling from the warmth of her touch, aching for more. He didn’t like that she’d come into his house and upended everything about his day and body and attitude in less than fifteen minutes.

      He wanted her out of here. He wanted to go back to his bad-assed mood, refining his misery to an art. He didn’t want to cope with people who irritated him, seeing his current poor showing as a human being reflected so clearly back to himself.

      “You can go now. You should go now.”

      “You think?” She knelt close to him, smelling flower fresh, and put her hands around his thigh, safely above his knee. She started on the tightness his injury caused in his quads and in his hamstrings, loosening the muscles, increasing the blood flow to his leg. Jameson sucked in a breath. Her hands were strong, long fingered, with clear pink polish.

      They were very talented hands.

      His cock noticed.

      He was wearing sweatpants.

      Kendra would notice.

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