Wicked Secrets

by Anne Marsh

Imagine that. She could.

  The problem was, she had no self-control around this man. Instead, she took him into her mouth again as deep as she could, until his head bumped lightly against the back of her throat.

  Long minutes later, he tugged on her hair. Less carefully this time. She probably shouldn’t find the little sting sexy.

  She smiled up at him. Slowly. “You have something to say to me?”

  Cosmopolitan had been right, she thought gleefully. His eyes darkened, and he looked like he was seconds from coming apart. God, she loved pleasuring him.

  His grip on her hair relaxed, but the tension in his big body broadcast its own message. “I’m about done here. Am I coming in?”

  Oh, please. She nodded, hoping like crazy he had a condom because the bedroom was too far away. He produced one from somewhere, foil tearing as he opened the packet and smoothed the rubber down.

  She swung herself on top of him, positioning herself so the tip of him pressed against her opening. Bull’s-eye. His hands gripped her hips, and he pushed up. She met his thrust, taking him deep inside her body until his balls were pressed against her.

  “Okay?” he gritted out.

  She didn’t need a status check. She needed more. “Again.”

  “Bossy.” But he complied.

  She wrapped her legs around his hips, gripping him tightly. She needed more of this. He gave it to her, as if he knew without her saying anything or telling him how and where she needed his touch. He drove himself into her, and she could feel the control slipping away. His hips moved faster, harder, and she rode him, watching his face, fiercely focused on her and getting her where they both needed to go.

  And she was getting left behind. Not that she minded so much. There was more to being here with him than just the sex—which was a dangerous thought. She filed it away for later because he moved his hand between them and found her.

  “My turn.”

  He tapped her sweet spot, and she jerked, breaking the rhythm. He took over. One big hand curled around her hip, guiding her. The other flicked over her clit, pushing her higher. Giving her more and more. Oh, please.

  “Now,” he commanded. “Come for me now, Sergeant. I’ve got you, so you let go now.”

  She wanted to remind him she didn’t take orders, not from him and certainly not here. But apparently she did. Air burst from her mouth in short, sharp pants as her whole world narrowed to this man and his fingers and his commands. He could see her face. No way she hid how he made her feel or just how out of control she was.

  “Beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He petted her with his fingers, soothing her down as the spasms shuddered through her body. As his hips jerked against hers, his fingers gripping her close, part of her regretted the condom. She felt a primitive urge to have him mark her.

  Or she could mark him. He wasn’t in charge here, no matter how deliciously he claimed her.

  “Not as beautiful as you,” she said and she meant it. He was gorgeous. Big and hot and sweaty, he worked himself deep inside her body, thrusting in a rhythm guaranteed to drive her crazy. And, because she’d thought about marking him, she leaned up and bit his shoulder, just hard enough to leave an imprint. Mine.

  “Uncalled for, Sergeant,” he growled, but she didn’t think he really minded because he let go then and so did she.

  6

  WHY WERE MONDAYS always such a bitch? The Bayliner was twenty-eight-feet long with two fishermen on board. According to the owner’s for-sale ad in the local penny-saver, she had a 350 Chevy motor rebuilt from scratch, new upholstery, six life jackets and a private head. Right now, Tag figured the asking price was dropping fast, because what this particular boat didn’t have was a working pump. He hoped to God the two men on board had been smart enough to wear the life jackets.

  The steady roar of the rotors overhead made conversation difficult, so Tag leaned forward, bracing in the open door. There. A white boat with blue pinstriping drifted on the ocean. Two men were on deck—thankfully sporting bright orange life jackets—and they immediately started signaling when they heard the chopper. Raising his binoculars to his eyes, he examined the boat and the men for obvious signs of damage.

  “We’ve got the A One Anna Tuna in our sights.”

  Cal flashed him a thumbs-up from the pilot’s seat, and Tag kept his eyes trained on the boat as they banked and made a go-around pass. The recent storm had kicked up the waters, and that translated into some pretty powerful waves. The A One Anna Tuna was too small to handle much in the way of a swell, and, although the men on board had tried valiantly to pump her out, she’d taken on water. The way she foundered as a new wave hit said she was in danger of rolling. And, just in case the rescue had seemed too easy, the A One Anna Tuna was also out of gas.

  The plan was to drop a rescue swimmer on the hoist line with a replacement part. Just like playing Santa Claus, except they had water to contend with instead of snow. Easy-peasy.

  On Daeg’s signal, he braced himself into the open door with nothing between himself and the ocean but forty feet of open air. Good times. He launched himself out of the helicopter, head up and fins down. Seconds later, he punched through the water, kicking hard toward the fishing boat.

  As soon as he was on deck, Cal and Daeg moved into position overheard, dropping the hoist line on his signal as the first crewman approached him.

  “You all right?” The man looked tired but his color was good.

  “Glad to see you and I’m looking forward to buying you a beer when we’re all back on the island.”

  Yeah. He got that a lot in his line of work. He signaled Daeg to lower the cable. Metal flashed in the sunlight as his buddy hooked up the basket to the equipment ring and lowered the spare pump.

  The basket descended from the chopper, landing dead center. He’d bet Daeg was a demon with those claw games, as well. He flashed Daeg a thumbs-up and waved off the fisherman when the guy moved in to help.

  “Let the basket ground on the deck before we touch it.” The helicopter’s rotors could build up one hell of a charge. He didn’t need to flirt with electrocution today. Fifteen minutes later, the A One Anna Tuna had a new temporary pump and enough in her tank to make it back to Discovery Island.

  Tag rode the basket back up to the chopper, the empty gas can sitting pretty beside him. It felt like riding one of those fair rides, the litter swinging back and forth as the wind picked up, dotting the ocean surface below with little whitecaps, until Daeg pulled on the trail line, smoothing out the ride. Two minutes later, he was sliding inside the helicopter, and Daeg was breaking down the litter.

  Cal’s voice came on over the headset. “Is our A One Anna Tuna back in business?”

  “Yes, mission complete.” Tag shook his head wryly. The names people gave their boats never failed to amaze him. What was wrong with naming a boat something straightforward like Bob? He could have the Bob I, Bob II, maybe even a Bob III if the rescue business turned out to be a gold mine, or he was a really bad driver and burned through boats.

  Daeg didn’t share his enthusiasm when Tag voiced the thought. “You can’t give a boat the kind of name you give your dog or your kid.”

  “Are you stockpiling baby names?”

  Daeg didn’t say anything, and that said it all, didn’t it?

  “A One Anna Tuna is pretty bad,” Daeg finally admitted. “Thank God I’ve never been partial to Anna as a name.”

  “Gets stuck in your head, doesn’t it?” He laid back on the floor, watching the crazy swing of the sky outside the open bay.

  “You bet.”

  Grinning, Daeg gave Tag a sly wink. “By the way, how’s your weekend rescue doing? Did your Harley survive the sick up?”

  “Five bucks it was too much tequila,” Cal said over the radio.

  Mia. “Beer’s on you, then. It
was motion sickness. She’s a vet.”

  “One of those traumatic brain injury things?” That was classic Cal. Cut his leg off, and the man would swear he was okay. Tag didn’t know who Mia had seen, but he didn’t like the idea of her passing on a medical assist because of some misguided notion that real soldiers didn’t ask for help.

  He looked down at the ocean one more time, but the A One Anna Tuna’s crew had this. Plus, the Coast Guard was on their way to offer a tow if needed. He signaled Cal to head back to Discovery Island and dropped his head back onto the floor. Jesus. He needed a good night’s sleep sometime this century.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “She was Army and flew choppers.”

  “IED,” Daeg said. “You’ve got the money shot right there. You drive over one of those, and, boom, it shakes your brain inside your Kevlar like a martini.”

  “Did you hook up with her friends?” Cal asked. “Take her to see Doc Evan?”

  Discovery Island had an emergency clinic with a part-time doctor and a full-time nurse. The place kept business hours, though, and there had been nothing a doctor could do anyhow.

  “She was alone.” Because somehow an entire bridal party had failed to realize they’d left Mia behind.

  Daeg turned his head and eyed him. “So...million dollar question. Where did you leave Hurling Beauty?”

  “I took her home with me. Loaned her a shirt and a toothbrush.”

  “Jesus. Why’d you do that?” Cal’s surprise came through loud and clear even over the headset.

  Hello. “Because she was alone on a beach with most of her stuff on a cruise ship two hundred miles away?”

  Daeg made a rude gesture. “Bring her to Sweet Moon’s. Dani’s grandparents can always use the business, and I guarantee it’s not going to raise eyebrows.”

  He’d wanted her to stay at his place. Stupid, but there it was.

  “Even I know you can’t bring a total stranger to your place.” Cal sounded irritated. “Even if she’s not a slice-and-dice kind of gal, she’s not going to feel comfortable spending the night with a random guy. Even if nothing’s happening,” he added hastily.

  And...plenty had happened. “We’re not strangers,” he admitted. “We met in San Diego. We have some history.”

  History he was not sharing the details of.

  “Where is she now?” Cal interrupted.

  Daeg grinned. “Halfway to Mexico, if she’s smart. Cabo’s way more fun than Discovery Island.”

  “With me.” He waited for the fallout.

  Daeg shook his head. “You meet her on the beach and you take her home just like that?”

  The chopper banked left in a lazy circle. Out of the open bay door, Tag could see Discovery Island growing closer. They’d be home soon.

  “Tag—” Cal took them down nice and easy, heading for the landing zone. “You have to remember one thing.”

  “Hit me.”

  “She’s not a cat.”

  “No. She’s also not a dog, a rabbit or a guinea pig.” He’d made the mistake of rescuing a tank of guinea pigs once. That was the same day he’d instituted a no-guinea-pig rule. The creatures were too similar to rodents for his taste, plus his cat had decided he’d brought home a snack. Yeah. Not a fun afternoon.

  “You can’t keep her. Not in a box, not at your place. You have to give her right back.”

  7

  MIA SPOTTED THE house with its For Sale sign three miles into her five-mile Monday afternoon run. Since Tag had convinced her to cancel her Sweet Moon’s reservation and stay with him for the remainder of her short stay on the island, she’d been enjoying her downtime. Discovery Island wasn’t Cabo, but it had its charms.

  And, thanks to that downtime, she had no problem slowing her pace and taking a closer look at the house. The summer cottage had a screened-in porch facing the ocean, peeling white paint and an overabundance of red-and-pink geraniums rather like lipstick on a slightly careworn woman. The color could have been a cheerful attempt at a fix-up or a general screw you to a critical universe, emotions Mia herself had felt too often. Her feet slowed even as her head nagged at her to pick up the pace. She wasn’t staying, and she didn’t need a house. FedEx would bring her new credit cards tomorrow, and then she’d head off-island. Problem solved.

  As an officer, she’d been based in San Diego, but she’d spent most of her tours of duty overseas. She’d lived out of two duffel bags even when she’d been stateside, and none of the few rentals she’d stayed in had counted as a home. So if she’d flipped through freebie real estate brochures by the newspaper racks, that was her guilty secret. As was her desire to put down roots now that she was out of the military and her own woman.

  It couldn’t hurt to look, and the place seemed safe enough.

  She hopped the fence, a waist-high formal white picket number almost swallowed up by a Leaning Tower of Pisa formed from delphiniums and tiger lilies. The simple fact she knew the names of the flowers only proved she’d been spending too much time with another new vice: gardening catalogs. It was amazing how many people wanted to sell her flower bulbs for a buck.

  “You need a little love, don’t you?” she asked the house as she picked her way toward the front porch. No one had mowed the lawn in about a hundred years, leading to more weeds than grass, but the weeds were beautiful. Sprays of bright yellow shot up everywhere, and a bushy red plant with rubbery leaves had gone to seed, spreading madly across the yard.

  The house, of course, didn’t answer her. Thank God. She didn’t need to add completely crazy to her résumé. A gravel path led to a robin’s-egg-blue front door with little stained glass panels. She crunched closer, noting the visible signs of rot in the sagging porch boards. Definitely a fixer-upper. That was okay. So was she.

  Something moved underneath the porch. Sweat prickled her skin and not because of her run. She dropped to her knees, scanning the shadowy space half visible beneath the porch and the geranium screen. Two feet of space was more than large enough to accommodate a soldier. Or snakes, raccoons and a half-dozen other members of the animal kingdom. At least she could rule out sharks. There. The something twined against the geraniums, resolving into a flash of orange fur.

  A cat.

  Her house came with a cat.

  “Hello, there,” she crooned, inching closer just in case kitty was scared. Like a tiger crossed with a giraffe, the cat sported orange stripes on its sides and swirls going every which way. In addition to being colorful, the cat also came with a full quotient of feline confidence, as well, strolling out from underneath the porch like Mia’s last commanding officer. It paused from a safe distance and looked at her, clearly waiting for something. Mia didn’t have much experience with cats, but even she could tell that much.

  “Yes, sir.” The cat looked at her again in silent demand, chirped and disappeared back into the shadows. Right. She had her marching order. Gingerly, she stuck her head underneath the edge of the porch—she’d risk spiders for six inches and no farther—and realized kitty was definitely a girl. And hello...came with company. Five kittens blinked back at her from somebody’s old T-shirt.

  She fished out her cell from the pocket of her running shorts and called the number listed on the For Sale sign. The woman who answered was happy to send a Realtor out to show the place. Mia got the feeling the real estate market wasn’t exactly booming on Discovery Island. The cat brushed against her bare leg. Whether kitty knew it or not, she needed a helping hand.

  “I also need a cat rescued.” She wasn’t sure she was ready to take on a house and a family of five. She and kitty definitely needed to at least date first.

  The woman on the other end of the line hesitated. Thinking things through, Mia hoped. “Discovery Island has a rescue team,” she said finally.

  “Good. Send them over.” Mia repeated the address and h
ung up to wait.

  Waiting wasn’t her first choice. She’d done enough sitting around in the desert sandbox where she and her unit had been deployed. She was, however, good at it. She also knew a half-dozen different ways to get inside the house without the key, but she was turning over a new leaf. Pretending to be civilized and blessedly normal. Normal people definitely waited for the Realtor to come and let them in. Besides, on the off chance she wanted to put in a bid for the place, she didn’t need to add one more item to the repair list.

  * * *

  TAG PARKED HIS truck in front of the run-down cottage. His Monday plans had not included getting called out to rescue a litter of kittens. On the other hand, since the search-and-rescue business was slow at the moment, there was no reason not to come. It was always good to be needed, and Mary Beth, the receptionist at the real estate agency, had sounded slightly frazzled. Plus, she’d promised him a cup of coffee for his efforts, so she had herself a double win right there.

  “I can be had for two bucks worth of Joe,” he said to Ben Franklin, who was riding shotgun. The dog barked happily in agreement as Tag got out of the truck and slammed the door. Since there were kittens to be recovered, the boxer needed to stay put for the moment. Afterward, Tag would make some introductions and test the possibilities.

  And...triple win. The cottage also came with Mia. Two days ago he’d offered her a job, and she’d thrown his offer back in his face. Shortly thereafter, she’d treated him to the best morning sex of his life and then organized a rapid departure for Sweet Moon’s and some space of her own. He’d had to talk fast—and kiss plenty—to convince her to stay put with him. She didn’t look now as if she had any regrets, either, although twenty-four hours probably wasn’t enough time for her to entertain any regrets. Not that he wanted to find her starving in a ditch or beating her breast, but she looked perfectly happy. And impossibly sexy.

  Jesus. He needed to get over this insane attraction he had to her. She wasn’t his type, no matter how hot her running apparel was or how erotic his dreams last night had been. He’d bet she did yoga, too, because she stretched her leg on the porch railing, bending over in a way that did spectacular things for her butt in those skimpy shorts. She was definitely flexible. She had on one of those bra tops that managed to hold everything in place in a feat of engineering he thoroughly applauded. Sweat beaded her skin, slicked the sun-kissed valley between her breasts. He wanted to devour her from head to foot. No. He was here on a job.