Wicked Secrets

by Anne Marsh

  “That’s Mr. Bentley to you. Check my mailbox next time you forget my name.”

  “Either you have a girlfriend or you don’t.” She might have been out of the dating pool for a few years, but even she knew that much. Tag muttered something, taking the high road, and shoved the doors open. Whatever. She’d be the first to admit her social skills were rusty. She waved in Mr. Bentley’s general direction and followed Tag inside. He wasn’t much on furniture—he had a couch and a coffee table and nothing else—but a fifty-pound bag of dog food dwarfed the kitchen counter. The bag of cat food next to it wasn’t much smaller, completely overshadowing a couple of browning bananas. Maybe he had monkeys, too, because the man clearly had hidden depths.

  “You have pets,” she said, stating the obvious as a white boxer wearing a happy grin loped toward them, followed by a Chihuahua suffering from some kind of eye infection. A geriatric cat and a rabbit brought up the rear of the parade. Honest to God, the man had his own Easter bunny, even if he’d apparently passed on the monkeys.

  She hazarded a random guess because it had been a day full of surprises. “You’ve become a vet because rescue swimming is so boring.”

  “No.” He greeted the dogs and the cat, picking up the rabbit and tucking it beneath his arm. Tag’s place was definitely small. He had a teeny living room and a galley kitchen too miniscule to hold the two of them. “Meet Ben Franklin, Buckeye, Beauregard, and Cadbury. Cadbury’s the one with the floppy ears, in case you’re wondering, but they’re all boys, and no one comes when called. The bathroom’s through there,” he said, waving a hand toward the hall.

  “Are you moonlighting as Doctor Doolittle?” Snarking distracted her from the residual queasiness in her stomach—and the awkwardness of being here, alone with him, when she had memories of him naked. “Why all the animals?”

  He shrugged, a powerful roll of his shoulders. “They needed a place.”

  She settled for escaping into the bathroom while he fed his menagerie. The man even had a bonus toothbrush, which after her palm-tree encounter, she was pathetically grateful for. Mint had never tasted so good—and was all she wanted to taste right now. Not a big, too-charming, badass Navy man who thought she needed rescuing. No way, no how.

  * * *

  TAG HAD RENTED the apartment furnished from Mr. Bentley, and taking things month-to-month had seemed wise. Now with his plans to leave Discovery Island firmed up, the decision was even more fortunate. It wasn’t like he owned any furniture anyhow. He’d always traveled light, and his non-ops stuff fit in a pair of duffel bags. So he shouldn’t have this strange, warm feeling of satisfaction, getting Mia on his turf. The first time—the last time, he reminded himself—they’d gone at it in her hotel room. The place had been perfectly comfortable, and they’d really only been interested in the bed. The wall. He grinned slyly. And the floor...

  The boxer bumped his leg, making himself known. “Lucky dog.”

  Ben Franklin panted happily up at him, everything right in his doggie world.

  Tag’s own life wasn’t quite as simple, and Mia was just the latest symptom. He was a sucker for four-legged and lonely. He’d have to figure something out, though, before he headed back to San Diego in six weeks. Base housing wouldn’t allow animals, and, although he could rent a place off base, finding a pet-friendly landlord would be a challenge. And, besides, animals couldn’t be left alone for months on end. Somehow, he needed to re-home the menagerie in the next six weeks. He definitely shouldn’t have named them.

  Buckeye gave him a reproachful glare, as if he’d read Tag’s mind and knew the guy who provided the dog chow was having second thoughts. Or getting attached. Yeah. It was the attached part that posed a problem.

  “We should get her a shirt, yeah?” One way or another, he’d figure out a solution to his animal woes. Maybe Dani need a dog. Or two. And Piper was definitely a cat person.

  Beauregard rubbed against his ankles, decorating his jeans with cat hair, and then pranced down the hallway, tail swishing. The haughty gesture looked enough like a yes to him, so he took his cue and followed the tail. Thank God he’d done laundry this week. Mia had served overseas, and she’d have roughed it more than once, but even he drew the line at offering her a used T-shirt.

  After grabbing a clean shirt, he fell back down the hallway and rapped on the bathroom door. The sound of water running got his imagination going. She could be naked in there. Naked and wet. She had a gorgeous body, all toned, tanned lines and feminine strength. He could... He didn’t know what he could do. Hell.

  The water stopped, followed by the sounds of movement inside. Had he left a towel in there? Damn. He had no idea, but he was no Martha Stewart. If he was lucky, he had toilet paper and a toothbrush. The door cracked, and Mia stared through the small space. She still sported the purple shadows underneath her eyes, but her color was better. Maybe her stomach was finally settling down.

  “What?”

  Yeah. What? He was standing and staring. He yanked his attention back to the job at hand and waved the shirt at her. “Wardrobe change.”

  She grabbed his peace offering, which meant she had to open the door farther. Bingo. He had his opening. He should move back. Give her space. Instead, he curled a hand around the frame and inserted a foot into the crack she’d created. She was fully dressed, although she smelled like mint and hand soap. He stared at her while she turned his offering over in her hands and examined it.

  “You’re giving me a Navy T-shirt?” She looked up at him, her eyes laughing. How had he missed her sense of humor? She’d also unbraided her hair, and the loose waves made her look softer. Younger. Okay...it also made her look tousled and fresh out of bed, so the new hairstyle wasn’t a good thing because it gave him too many ideas.

  He’d grabbed the first clean T-shirt he’d found and, yeah, it might also have been the only clean shirt in his possession at the moment. Beggars, choosers and all that. If she didn’t like her choice, she could wear her own things or go naked. Naked definitely worked for him.

  He shrugged, as if some small part of him didn’t like the thought of her wearing his shirt. “The shirt’s optional.”

  She wasn’t looking at the clothing, though—instead, she was staring at him and, more specifically, at his mouth. How was he supposed to be a gentleman? She was a veteran. Injured. And breathtaking. He was going to hell, but he wanted his own brand of sensual revenge. She’d pulled rank on him during their one night in San Diego, and he...well, he’d been willing to let her. Not this time. This time he had plans—if he was being honest with himself—for erotic payback.

  “Open the door or close it.” He growled the words, no longer interested in playing nice. His voice sounded rough and harsh to his own ears and, oh yeah, needy. While she, on the other hand, had made it perfectly clear she didn’t need him so much. He was a place to stay and a toothbrush, although she could have taken care of the problem on her own. Even puking on the beach, Mia was frighteningly competent.

  He moved a step nearer, his fingers digging into the door frame. He was close enough to feel the heat coming off her body, to smell his soap on her skin. She was sexy as hell, but this night wasn’t supposed to be about sex. He let go of the door, but he didn’t back up, didn’t fall back down the hallway and put some space between them. Instead he got closer—and damned if she didn’t help him. She moved toward him in a sweet collision. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her thighs pressed against his. All those layers of clothes couldn’t keep him from remembering what she’d felt like naked in his arms.

  And wanting a repeat.

  Keeping his hands off her was impossible. So he clasped a hand around the back of her neck, tracing the soft skin, loving how the small tendrils of hair clung to his fingers as he drew her closer. She made a small, throaty sound, tipping her head back against the door, and he was lost.

  He cove
red her mouth with his and kissed her. She was warm and soft and, as his tongue tangled with hers because she kissed with as much certainty as she did everything else, he felt the strangest sense of coming home. They’d kissed before, dozens of times, during their one post–Star Bar night, but the reality was even better than his memories. She slid her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, grabbing his shirt and palming the back of his head.

  He wanted her, every stubborn, prickly and sensuous inch of her.

  Never mind they were both leaving and he probably had no business touching her without admitting to his part in her unwelcome nickname. Or that he’d brought her here because she was sick and alone, which made kissing her a bastard move. Instead of stopping, though, he deepened their kiss, tasting mint and Mia. Damn it. Toothpaste shouldn’t be such a turn-on. She shouldn’t be because, well, there was still no future for them besides another night or three. Although, right now, the need for sex was almost enough.

  Her lips parted beneath his, but there wasn’t an ounce of submission in her. Trap. She lured him in via the best kind of sensual ambush, making a sound that was part delight, part moan. He threaded his fingers through her free hand, pinning her fingers above her head. Her hand closed around his in response, and he couldn’t have broken free if he wanted to. Instead, he drank in the little sounds she made as her tongue twined with his, and they both fought to control the kiss and the heat. Kissing and kissing, because admitting defeat wasn’t something either of them did.

  “Tag—” She wriggled, her fingers and his loaner shirt trapped between them.

  That was his name, he just had no idea what she meant. Tag, kiss me some more? Or, more likely, Tag, back the hell up.

  “The bed’s to your right. I’ll take the couch.”

  Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes got bigger, though, and he was staring at her mouth where her lips were swollen and pink from their kiss. He wanted to rub his thumb over their enticing plumpness, dip inside her there like lower, more southern parts of him wanted to do elsewhere. Except...she still wasn’t saying anything, and this was likely why he didn’t have a girlfriend, a live-in lover, or—God forbid—a fiancée like Daeg and Cal. They probably knew exactly what to say when their females stared back at them, all big, brown eyes. Maybe there was a user manual somewhere he could read up on, but right now he was on his own. And he had no damned idea what to say.

  “Good night,” he said and retreated to the living room.

  * * *

  MIA WASN’T MUCH for sleeping. Her head got too busy when she slept, and the nightmares were the least of her worries. At least those were over—more or less—when she woke up. Nope. Her real problem was getting to sleep. She’d been fine the first three months she’d been back, and then the problems had started. She woke up dozens of times a night, although she didn’t always remember doing so. Sleeping pills didn’t help, and, after trying them for a week, she’d abandoned any hopes of pharmaceutical assistance. The pills left her with cottonmouth and a sluggish, detached feeling nothing seemed to shake. She didn’t need to be any more numb than she already was, so no, thanks. After her third wake-up call, she shoved herself upright and conceded defeat. Tag had a nice comfortable mattress with sheets that smelled like him. There was a neat stack of paperbacks on a bedside table, nonfiction bestsellers and a dog-eared copy of Sherlock Holmes stories. There wasn’t much else in the room, though. Tag traveled light.

  Lightning cracked overhead, followed by the low, echoing boom of thunder. The storms that had been rolling in all afternoon, dark purple streaks on the horizon, were finally there. Raindrops hit the French doors, tap-dancing on the glass.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected after the good-night kiss he’d given her, but sleeping alone hadn’t been on her mental list. She hadn’t expected a repeat of San Diego’s hot sex—even if she’d been hoping—but the bed was a big one. The couch, on the other hand, was of the love seat variety. He couldn’t possibly fit. She should check on him, make sure he was comfortable. Since she was up and all. She looked at her phone. Her cousin had noticed her absence and was predictably frantic. Since Mia couldn’t teleport to the cruise ship, she settled for texting a few vague assurances that all was right in Mia land.

  She padded out barefoot. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, her night vision kicked in. Everything was silvery gray, thanks to the moonlight pouring in. Given the miniscule size of the place, locating Tag was easy. He was, after all, the large, man-size shape sprawled on the tiny sofa, his legs hanging over one arm. He’d snagged a pillow from somewhere and then crashed hard, one arm slung over his head, the other resting on his stomach as his resident zoo supervised him. The ancient cat on the back of the sofa cracked one eye to glare at her, although the Chihuahua making itself at home between his legs didn’t seem to mind her presence. Which was good, because staring at Tag asleep was something she could do for hours.

  He looked sexy as hell, his chest bare where the throw blanket had dipped below the waistband of his sweatpants. Her pulse quickened as memories of their night together swept through her. She’d licked his taut abdomen, had teased her way down while he cursed and groaned and they both enjoyed themselves. All she had to do now was hook a finger in his sweats and tug, but...he also looked perfectly content where he was—and his couch was most definitely not built for two.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand, and she looked down as a text from Laurel flashed across the screen.

  Safe my ass. Where the hell are you?

  In trouble.

  She considered turning the phone off, but then her cousin would probably call out the National Guard—or, worse, Mia’s brothers. Before she could second-guess herself, she snapped a cell-phone picture of Tag and sent it to her cousin.

  Safe and sound. Catching up with an old friend.

  There was a moment’s silence and then:

  Is he the hottie from the beach bar? He makes stranger danger look good.

  How much to disclose?

  You have to share.

  Her cousin’s next message followed fast on the heels of the last. A quick glance at the phone warned it was five in the morning.

  Are you waking up—or just going to bed? Deflection was good.

  I’m not the one who missed the boat.

  She was never going to live her beach nap down. When her brothers found out, they’d hound her for years.

  He offered me a place to stay for the night.

  Hot sex had definitely not been part of the package.

  Is that code for dating? her cousin asked.

  No. He’s a Navy rescue swimmer who ships out in less than six weeks and who happens to have a spare couch.

  Which he was sleeping on. Seconds later, her phone buzzed.

  Typical. Email me more. Gotta catch some zzzz. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

  Unfortunately, Laurel’s edict left plenty of ground uncovered. Mia’s cousin had been a wild child before she’d met her husband-to-be. Picking up a hot-looking stranger on the beach was probably a misdemeanor in her cousin’s book. Plus, all too reminiscent of Mia’s own former fiancé, Tag was spectacularly unavailable for the long haul. So...her cousin had a point. Mia excelled at picking guys who were emotionally unavailable. Not that she’d done all that much picking, if she was being honest. She’d always settled.

  Really, she hadn’t been terribly surprised—or devastated—when her ex had made it clear he wouldn’t be around when she was ready to get married. Or even get back stateside. He’d been a fun diversion, a good excuse not to look around. Because getting involved with someone—really involved—might mean letting someone get close. Giving up control.

  Conveniently, Tag was another sailor who wasn’t interested in settling down. They could have fun together while she considered what she wanted to do with her future. He was the perfect p
ractice man. She slipped out of the room, cataloging the contents of the apartment as she went. Tag’s place was probably really cute in the daylight, even if it was hard to imagine him picking it out. Someone had hung gauzy sheers over the window. The filmy fabric provided no real cover, but Mr. Bentley probably wasn’t an enemy sniper, either.

  When she heard the soft scrabbling noise coming from behind her, she almost dropped the phone. Just a little noise. Nothing big, tall and deadly. Whirling, she tracked the sound to a cardboard box beneath the front window. Adrenaline pumped through her, even as she knew, logically, there couldn’t be anything bad hiding inside the box. It was just a box.

  A box making thumping sounds.

  Dropping to her knees, she peered inside. Five small black-and-white kittens ignored her intrusion and continued to wrestle.

  “Can’t sleep?” The raspy growl from the shadows behind her shot straight to her girly bits. Did he have any idea how sexy he sounded? The throw blanket hit the floor as he stood up.

  “Occupational hazard.” She tapped the side of the box. “You’re stockpiling cats. Do these have names, too?”

  “Occupational hazard,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice as he mimicked her words. “They needed rescuing and I had a spare box. I haven’t named them yet. You want to help?”

  He’d given them more than four cardboard walls. The cats tumbled happily around inside, certain of their place in Tag’s heart. He crouched down beside her as if a dark-o’clock rendezvous wasn’t something out of the ordinary, reaching in to rub a small feline head, rough affection in each touch. The man was a mass of contradictions. He was a trained soldier and a dead accurate shot. He’d rappelled out of Blackhawks into some of the choppiest waters in the world, and, once there, he’d rescued some of Uncle Sam’s finest—and plenty of other people. Her nipples tingled. And he loved cats.

  The only things standing between herself and naked were his T-shirt and her bikini bottom. That wasn’t a whole lot of clothing, even if her pink swimsuit wasn’t exactly Agent Provocateur. Tag was deliciously, fabulously half-dressed himself. A pair of dark blue sweats hung low on his lean hips, revealing a stomach that was all delicious ridges and hard male planes.