by Lora Leigh
Mac’s head began to pound. This woman was going to be here three weeks? He was thinking he’d have to fight off his attraction to her for a weekend. This made things infinitely more difficult, and interesting.
Win got out the lettuce, an orange pepper, tomatoes and cucumbers, and Mac offered to make the salad. Win smiled at him, got him a knife and a cutting board, and put him to work.
“Can’t we just use the one in your belt?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Your belt. The knife you’ve got tucked in your belt.”
Win giggled in relief, clearly embarrassed, then reached for the small knife, unwrapped it and placed it in the sink. “It was for protection,” she said.
“Of course.”
“You never know when some mountain man will force you at gunpoint to julienne vegetables.”
Mac smiled at her as he worked on the salad. “You’re a funny lady, Win. Do you write comedies?”
“Not really. I’m best known for the Lethal Mercy movies.”
Mac nearly sliced off his thumb. He tossed the knife down and stared at her, and the look on his face must have been a little too intense for Win, because she took a step back.
“Sorry. It’s just—are you kidding?” He laughed. “You wrote the Max Mercy movies?”
She huffed and turned away. He hadn’t meant to offend her, but he couldn’t fucking believe that this hot little piece of ass had dreamed up the action hero that his team relentlessly teased him about. When the first movie came out four years ago, everyone on his team—from the computer geeks to the sharpshooters to the language specialists—began calling him “Mac Mercy” behind his back. Then to his face. Which took a lot of nerve, considering he was their commanding officer.
Mac couldn’t stop smiling.
“I take it you’re amused,” she said, flipping the fish and brushing it with a coat of teriyaki sauce.
“I’m fascinated. I’m astounded. I’m . . .” Mac didn’t know how to put this without scaring her away. He did not want to scare away this remarkable woman. “I know your work well. I’m a fan of yours, and I’m becoming a bigger fan by the second.”
Win slowly turned her head. In her eyes he could see amusement, doubt, and something more—something hot and blatantly sexual. She gave him a pensive smile.
“This is going to sound strange and I hope you don’t flip out when I say this, Vincent.” She leaned up against the counter and crossed her arms over what he estimated to be C-cups. “But you remind me . . . well . . . you are so much like—”
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s have lunch.”
They sat at the table on the back deck and ate and talked and talked some more. By three in the afternoon, they were sprawled out on lounge chairs with a bottle of Artie’s 1994 Opus One Cabernet Sauvignon and two glasses for company. Win supposed she should feel guilty about raiding her agent’s top-notch wine cellar, but she rationalized it by noting that her creative juices were flowing.
In fact, her juices were flowing so much, her panties were damp.
Vincent had just told her he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an afternoon so relaxing. He said life had been hectic with work and then his dad had a stroke six weeks before. Mac Senior had already moved from the cabin to an assisted-living facility, where he could be independent and have medical care right at home.
Vincent also talked about his childhood in Brooklyn, how his mother died when he was sixteen, and how his father had a hard time controlling his wild teenage son. “I was a one-boy wrecking crew,” he said. He glanced her way with a crooked, stubble-framed grin, “I still am, but now I get paid for it.”
At that moment, Win noticed that the wine—and the man—had stunted her ability to think straight. Her fingers began to tingle, her chest was warm, and she let her head loll back against the chaise cushion.
Suddenly, she emerged from her wine-and celibacy-induced fog to see it all clearly—she’d been set up! Artie wanted her to meet Vincent! He arranged this encounter to get her out of her writing slump!
She giggled, realizing she was so relaxed, it didn’t even piss her off, and let out a big sigh.
“Did Artie tell you I was coming up here?”
Vincent frowned a little and gave it a moment’s thought. “No.”
Win took a sip of the rich, dark wine. “The script I’m working on is supposed to be Max Mercy’s love story, did I mention that? Max meets his match—a beautiful and dangerous babe in serious trouble, of course—and the two of them go around kicking a lot of ass in exotic foreign locales and having a lot of sex.”
One corner of Vincent’s mouth twitched. “Sex and violence. It’s a Max Mercy movie all right.”
“Ah, but this time it’s the real deal.” Win smiled at him. “He falls in love.”
Vincent’s right eyebrow arched high in disbelief. “Max drops the L-bomb in this movie?”
Win laughed. “Hey, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“So they say.”
Win watched him take a swig from his wineglass and settle comfortably in the chair. She decided to tell him of her dilemma. “The problem is, I’ve been suffering from a little writer’s block lately, so the story isn’t really where it should be.”
Vincent pondered that for a moment. “Are you blocked with the ass-kicking or the sex-having?”
“Both.”
He turned his big body in the chair toward her, his interest in both topics plain to see. When his shoulder touched the cushion, he grimaced in pain.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as it did two weeks ago.”
“What happened to you?”
Vincent smiled and said, “A buddy of mine in an exotic foreign locale was having some serious trouble, so I had to go kick a lot of ass.”
“I see. Did you have any sex while you were out and about?”
“None whatsoever. But I did manage to take a bullet and fall from a second-story window ledge, which can screw up your life almost as much as sex.”
Win gasped. “Oh my God!”
“It’s getting better every day.”
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the chair, leaning closer to Vincent. Her head was spinning and she quickly glanced at the wine bottle—empty. No wonder she was dizzy. She leaned forward on her elbows.
“Do you know how funny our names sound together—Winifred and Vincent? We sound like an old British couple with bad teeth and a country house.”
Vincent chuckled. “We both have excellent teeth, the country houses aren’t ours, and I love your imagination.” He adjusted his position and hissed in pain.
Win walked over to his chair, and sat right next to him. “Can I do anything for you?” she whispered.
All right. She knew that was stupid—she had no business flirting with a powerful stranger at a remote wilderness retreat. Any woman who did something that dumb got exactly what she deserved. At least that’s what she was hoping.
“As a matter of fact, you can.” Vincent put his wine down, and studied her carefully. His face was serene, strong and sexy as hell.
“Take off all your clothes, Winifred, and sit that incredible ass of yours down in that hot tub over there and wait for me to join you.” He flashed his white teeth at her. “I’m going to get another bottle of wine.”
Win gulped audibly. He hadn’t even touched her—not even a handshake—and he was telling her to get naked and wait for him in a hot tub? That smile still lingered on his face, and it did little to temper the glint in his eye. This man was dangerous. This man was hot. This man was the answer to her prayers.
“Okay,” Win said, standing up. She began by taking off her hiking boots and socks.
Vincent laughed and got up from the chair, hissing in pain again. As he headed into the house he turned. “Uh, Win? Did you bring condoms, by any chance?”
Win’s hand froze on the buttons of her shirt. Of course she didn’t bring condoms! “No!
I came up here to write about sex, not actually have it.”
Vincent laughed and shook his head. “If I’m not mistaken, Artie probably planned for every contingency. Be right back.”
Win was having an out-of-body experience. Someone’s hands—they looked a lot like her own—began to unbutton every last button on her shirt, then undid her belt buckle, removed her hiking shorts, pulled off her French-cut panties and underwire bra, and removed the clip from her hair. Somehow, she found herself walking toward the hot tub. That familiar-looking hand found the control panel on the wall, flipped the switch, and pulled off the thick padded cover. Then the hand held on to the railing as she stepped in.
So hot, so hot, so hot . . . and her skin tingled and her nipples drew up and tightened and she heard a little voice sing out in her head, “Let’s get it started in here. . . .”
Win eased down until the water lapped at her shoulders and her bottom rested comfortably on the ledge, massaged by conveniently placed water jets. And then it hit her—deadline stress must have weakened her mores! She didn’t even know this man! This was not like her. She had a three-date rule from which she never deviated. All right, just that once, but that was one hell of a first date and it was in Montreal, for God’s sake, and it was a private jet, not a commercial carrier.
And this? Win’s heart bounced around in her chest with the force of a jackhammer. She felt herself smile. This was better than Montreal and the private jet. Hell—this was better than anything she could cook up in her imagination, which was definitely saying something.
There were condoms everywhere—condoms in the bedside table in the guest room, condoms in the medicine cabinets, condoms in the cookie jar in the kitchen. As Mac went around the house on condom patrol, he figured Artie must’ve arranged for someone to take care of all these little details, including turning off the laundry room water main.
Poor Win never had a chance. And now, neither did he.
“Thank you, Artie,” Mac whispered, selecting a nice 2001 La Tache French Burgundy from the cellar, deciding they should stick with red.
He exited the doors to the deck and stopped in his tracks. Win’s delicious dark curls tumbled out behind her, spread out on the red-wood rim of the hot tub. Her eyes were closed, and her dramatic lashes lay thick upon her pale cheeks. Her lips were stained red from the wine and were slightly parted. And bobbing in the bubbles were two stupendous breasts, hard dark pink nipples just visible under the roiling surface.
Mac couldn’t seem to catch his breath. This beautiful woman was game. It was almost unbelievable. He knew it had been so long that if he didn’t exercise caution, he’d pop his own cork before he could open the second bottle of wine.
He walked stealthily toward the sunken tub and stared down at her. She opened her eyes and smiled; then he watched her gaze travel to the plastic grocery bag dangling from his hand. Mac set down the wine bottle and corkscrew, then held the bag open for her inspection.
“Damn,” she breathed.
“I fear Artie may overestimate me.”
Win sat up a little, her eyes wide. “There have got to be two hundred condoms in there!” She leaned her head back and laughed quite hard, and Mac loved the sound. It was loud and raucous and oh yes, he could hear the Alabama in it. Plus he could see all of her nipples now. He began ripping off his clothes and was down to his boxers when her laughing abruptly ended.
He gazed down to see Win’s open mouth and wide eyes. “Do you need to see additional forms of ID before we go any further?”
She shook her head in silence.
“Good.” Mac hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of his shorts and pushed down. Win let out a cute little squeak as his cock jumped free, and she kept squeaking the whole time he lowered himself into the tub. The water felt so damn good, he released a roar of satisfaction.
“Is your shoulder going to be okay?”
“I don’t plan on swimming in here, so I’ll be fine.”
That was when he felt a small, soft hand land on his good shoulder, then run down to his bicep, stop, stroke down his forearm, stop again, and run back up to his bicep. She made that squeaking sound again.
“What exactly do you plan on doing in here, Lieutenant Macbeth?”
He liked her directness. He liked it a lot. Though really, what option was there in this situation? They were adults. Naked adults. Half-drunk naked adults alone in the woods—in a hot tub. Directness was almost called for.
He smiled at her. “I plan on using a lot of those condoms, and not for water balloons.”
She laughed again and moved her soft little hand to the back of his neck, where she rubbed. The pleasure was off the chart, and all she’d done was caress him above the waist. He hadn’t had a woman touch him like that—with desire and real affection—in years. Three years, to be precise. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that combination until right this moment.
“Would you like some more wine, Vincent?”
He let his head roll around as she kneaded the tight tendons on the back of his neck. “Absolutely.”
“Unfortunately, we left the glasses over by the chairs.”
He groaned. “Be right back.”
“No.” She stopped massaging. “Please allow me.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . she was up out of the water and climbing over him to get to the steps and that’s when he put his hand right on the sweet swell of her ass. He marveled at the fact that it was the very first time he’d reached out and made contact with her. There had been no handshake. No kiss. No gentlemanly palm to her lower back as he opened the door for her. Nope—the first time he intentionally touched Win Mackland it was big palm to sweet, wet, creamy-skinned ass.
He wasn’t going to last five minutes at this rate.
She rose from the hot tub, and he stared at her like a man who’d never seen a naked woman in his life. Perhaps he’d never seen one like this. All those womanly curves he’d noticed under her clothes were jaw-dropping in their unadorned state. Her breasts were round and soft and jutted out at this amazing little upward tilt that made him want to suck like a newborn. Her ass was a goddamn work of art, with fleshy but firm globes decorated with two little dimples at her spine. She bent over for the glasses and he got his first flash of dark pink, pouting pussy surrounded by a little patch of dark curls and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his mouth to keep from shouting.
Then she turned around, wineglasses in hand, her face lit up with a knowing smile that he could easily get used to, and she took her time coming back. He watched her thick hair bounce, her hips sway. He watched rivulets of water trickle down her taut tummy. He watched her lush thighs move back and forth, framing that delicate little pussy of hers. Suddenly, he realized there was a real risk that they’d run out of condoms. Three weeks was twenty-one days. If they fucked ten times a day, they’d be cutting it close. He’d have to pace himself.
Win eased herself back into the water and opened the wine, which she set aside to breathe.
“You know, this is not the norm for me.”
Mac was relieved to hear it and gave her a smile she apparently liked.
“But you are one incredibly sexy man, Vincent MacBeth.” Her voice was a whisper. “And I have a very big favor to ask you.”
He wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but he figured he might as well get his only concern out of the way. He hoped she’d take it well.
“No, you may not call me Maximillion,” he said.
She laughed again, loud and deep, running a hand through her damp curls. “As a rule, I keep a decent grip on reality, Vincent. And besides, I know you’re not Max, because you’re . . . well, you’re real.”
He liked that answer and smiled at her. “I am indeed. So what can this very real man do for you, Winifred?”
She batted her eyelashes at him, bit her bottom lip, then said, “I need you to be my muse for a few weeks. Think you’re up to the job?”
Chapter Thre
e
Mac had to laugh. This beautiful, nude woman had just asked if he was up to the challenge of being her temporary boy toy! She’d just asked the United States Navy’s most versatile covert operative to be her plaything! The woman had a lot of nerve. He liked that about her.
“I’m up for anything at the moment, as you can see.”
Their gazes fell to the water, where they watched the periscope of Mac’s big cock head come up for a look around.
“Hell-o,” she whispered.
“So how big is Max Mercy?”
Win’s eyes flashed. “That detail has never made it into a script, but I always pictured him bigger than average. Everything about him is larger than life, you know.”
“And how does Max like his sex?” Mac reached out and brushed a finger down the side of her face, along her jawline, down into the hollow of her collarbone. He could see Win’s pulse bang away under the pale skin of her throat. She seemed to be enjoying the line of questioning, but she hadn’t answered him yet. “Aren’t you going to tell me? Is Maximillion Mercy a soft and romantic guy or a little rough around the edges?”
Win wrapped her sweet little hand around his cock, or at least tried to. She gulped. “Uh. Max has very strong opinions about sex.”
“Of course he does. Go on.”
Win’s voice was husky and barely audible over the hot tub jets. Her hand began to stroke him. “He’s a demanding lover, but there are rewards for meeting his demands.”
“Hmm. Define demanding, please.”
The corner of Win’s little red mouth hitched up and her eyes sparkled. “Oh, he demands total concentration, Vincent. A Zen-like devotion to living in the moment. A one-hundred-and-ten-percent effort. But he gives as good as he gets.”
He chuckled. “The man’s got a solid game plan.” Win chose that moment to lick her lips and slide her cute little hand up and down his shaft in concert with the roiling water. Mac thought he’d die.
“Extremely solid,” she whispered.