Wicked Secrets

by Anne Marsh

  “Mia.”

  She was greedy. Being alive should have been enough. Instead, she shifted and swung herself over his lap to face him. He was leaning back against one of the pier posts, his legs stretched out in front of him letting the beach get his jeans wet and sandy. There was concern in his dark hazel eyes and—affection. Unfortunately, she had a bad feeling that wouldn’t be enough for her when he headed back to San Diego.

  “There were four of us in the Hummer. We drove straight over an IED.”

  “How many of you got out?” He went straight to the heart of the matter.

  She could see each one of the guys who’d ridden in the Humvee with her. Frankie, who was six foot two with a head of strawberry-blond hair and a perpetual sunburn on the bridge of his nose. J.T., who hated his given names so much he only answered to his initials and spent hours coming up with nicknames for every man in his unit. And Dylan, who’d sung cartoon jingles in a booming bass voice, because no mission was complete without an earworm.

  “Two and a half.”

  “That’s—” He shook his head, unable to come up with a suitable adjective. It didn’t matter. She’d heard them all, and none of them described her feelings.

  “Yeah. Dylan and I were in the front, so we both went airborne, which was a blessing in disguise. We had road rash, and I didn’t hear anything for three days, but pop a few Band-Aids on us and we were ready to go back out. J.T. and Frankie were in the backseat, however, and they took a direct hit.”

  “I’m damned sorry,” he said in a low, rough voice.

  “Me, too.”

  He kissed her then, a sweet, quick brush of his lips over hers. It wasn’t enough. His mouth kissed the corner of hers. Kissed more of her. He was holding back, as if he wasn’t sure what she wanted, but he’d give it to her if he could. She could feel his chest rising and falling beneath her palm, strong and certain in the darkness. No, she definitely needed more.

  “We could—” She waved at the sand around them. Really, it was almost dark enough. If they moved up toward those rocks, they’d have enough cover in case someone got curious and peeked underneath the pier. And neither of them had to get totally naked. Having Tag inside her right this instant seemed like a good idea. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so cold.

  “You want to get me arrested for indecent exposure?”

  He didn’t sound like he minded, but he stood up and carefully set her on her feet before swiping at the sand on her knees. She was pretty sure she didn’t have sand on her butt, but he brushed her off there, too.

  “Chicken,” she accused.

  “I have it on good authority sand chafes,” he said, a smile in his voice.

  She made a turn-around gesture with her fingers, and he obliged. Sand covered his butt. Lucky her.

  “I don’t want to know how you know that,” she retorted, brushing a hand over his sandy bits.

  “Cal has sisters,” he said apologetically, making a face. “They talk. I didn’t ask for details, but they volunteered. My vote is for a bed.” He held out a hand. “You coming?”

  She punched him lightly in the shoulder. “That has to be the worst double entendre I’ve heard today.”

  “I meant it.” He stared back at her, rock solid and steady. Except he wouldn’t be there always, not for her. He was headed back to San Diego, while she was staying here. She needed to savor every second with him while she could.

  She slid her hand into his.

  “Well, in that case, count me in.”

  16

  “SAM BLACK. RESCUE SWIMMER.” The man leaning against the front counter wore a grin and not much else. His swim trunks hung decadently low on lean hips, and he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. The man was seriously cut. While Cal had warned her the new guy was putting in an appearance today, he’d failed to give her a heads-up about how attractive the new addition was.

  “Mia Brandt. Office manager who’s going to manage your ass.”

  His smile got wider. “Give it your best shot.”

  She did a quick hand check. No rings. The lack of jewelry wasn’t necessarily conclusive, because some guys shucked their bands before they dove, but he also didn’t have tan lines on his fingers.

  “The guys said I could pick up a dive-shop T-shirt and a gear bag.”

  She eyeballed him for size—damn, did the military ever grow them small?—and tossed an extra-large in his direction.

  “Got it in one.” His eyes twinkled at her, not taking himself seriously. She liked that, too. Sam Black was fun.

  “Welcome to the team.” She thumped a stack of paperwork down in front of him. “Grab a pen and start signing.”

  “Maybe we should get to know each other first.” He waved a paper bag of tacos from a nearby food truck. “I brought lunch.”

  What wasn’t there to like about a guy bringing food? Free tacos were free tacos—and the company wasn’t bad. Of course, he wasn’t waiting for an invitation, either. He padded around the counter and joined her on the business side of things. Hooking a chair with his foot, he dropped into it and stared at her.

  “Free food will not get you out of the paperwork gig,” she advised him.

  He nodded solemnly. “And there it is—my secret plan revealed. I’ll have to come up with another one.”

  He caught her hand in his, running a thumb over her QVC engagement ring. Given how big and bling-y it was, he would have had to be blind not to notice it. “Nice sparkler. Off the market? Or just investing two month’s salary in diamond futures?”

  She couldn’t possibly explain her fake engagement to Sam. However, she wasn’t sure she could work up a suitably mysterious smile, either, or pretend there was nothing going on between her and Tag. Because there was something, even if it was just hot sex.

  “It’s complicated,” she hedged.

  “It always is.” He let go of her hand with a mock sigh. “But if you need to uncomplicate matters, I’m here to help. Or to fetch tacos. I take direction well, and I’m an excellent team player.”

  His heated gaze made it clear that team player was some sort of pickup line. She smiled back at him. Two-legged Sam was clearly attracted to her and had every intention of making his interest known. Too bad she looked at him and just wanted to pat him on the head like her cat.

  Ever since Tag had carried her off the pier like some kind of movie hero—she had Scarlett O’Hara fantasies playing in her head—she’d known two things. First, she didn’t need rescuing by anyone...but if Tag wanted to play Rhett Butler to her Scarlett, she was willing to let him. Second, Tag was sexy as hell, and she loved the wicked secrets of their nights together, but...she also wanted more than hot sex from him.

  In fact, when she thought about Tag, the words for keeps popped into her head with distressing regularity. He was part of her island fantasy, but her feelings for him ran so much deeper than that, and there was a good chance she loved him. All of which meant Sam was wasting his time. She’d take his tacos, but she wouldn’t date him.

  So she fixed what she hoped was a professional smile on her face. “Are you a loaner or are you here for good on the island?”

  He grinned back at her. He had a nice smile, one that reached his eyes and crinkled up the corners with happy lines. This was the kind of guy she should want to be The One for her. Especially when he moved closer, his shoulder bumping hers as he emptied the contents of the bag onto her desk. She tried not to wince at the mess. Free lunch was always great, but if he got taco drippings on her paperwork, they’d be having a much less amicable conversation.

  “I could be talked into staying.” He divided the tinfoil-wrapped tacos into two even-Steven piles.

  See? He smelled good and he shared. She’d bet he was a generous lover, as well.

  Her pulse refused to speed up.

  D
amn it. She was trying here, and Sam was clearly a natural-born flirt. Of course, Sam-the-kitten was completely won over by the gift of tacos and pounced on her desk.

  “Off-limits, Sam.” She’d made the mistake of feeding the kitten taco meat once. Her kitten apparently had a sensitive digestive system, and they’d both paid a hefty price for that little mishap.

  “It’s a sign,” big Sam said in a low, gravelly voice. “You named your cat after me.”

  They both looked at the animal, who was now trying to simultaneously chase his tail and lick his balls. His appointment with the Discovery Island vet wasn’t until next week.

  “I’m not sure that’s a recommendation,” she said wryly. She was also fairly certain that Tag had named the kitten after a Dr. Seuss character, perhaps because of its penchant to run around eating anything it saw.

  “And you’re different than I expected.” The grin Sam gave her was crooked and more than a little sexy. Unfortunately, he also wasn’t Tag. As much as she wished otherwise, the rescue swimmers weren’t interchangeable, and she couldn’t swap one out for the other like she would a light bulb or a spark plug.

  “How so?” She leaned over, waggling a pencil for the kitten to attack.

  “Sergeant Dominatrix,” he said, with a shrug.

  Wow. And here she thought she’d left that particular nickname behind in San Diego.

  “How did you hear that one?”

  He looked apologetic. “I was part of Tag’s unit, so I was there when he came up with it. I shouldn’t have repeated it.”

  If Sam called her ma’am, she’d have to kill him. And then the rest of his words sunk in. “Tag came up with the name?”

  Sergeant Dominatrix wasn’t the kind of nickname any female officer needed to deal with. She’d fought hard, trained harder. She was as good—and usually better—than any man in her division. And Tag had turned her into a punch line.

  “Shoot.” Sam’s gaze darted toward her. “I thought you knew. After seeing the two of you together, I assumed it was—”

  “A lover’s nickname? A pet name?”

  Wisely, Sam shut up.

  She wasn’t done with him yet. “Just to be perfectly clear, Tag is the guy who dubbed me Sergeant Dominatrix?”

  “It was a long time ago,” Sam offered weakly.

  Not long enough. She’d naively thought she’d been making some much-needed changes to her life by staying on Discovery Island. Choosing Tag—even if they only had a limited time together—had been a departure from the orderly script of her life. He’d been a risk and a heck of a lot of fun. Someone special, or so she’d thought. Since she’d no longer been an officer, she’d been free to choose him...and she hadn’t had to be anyone other than herself.

  She’d worried about having a future with Tag, but apparently she should have worried about their past.

  Sam stared at her, and there was no missing the look of masculine panic on his face. Yeah. He’d screwed up, and they both knew it. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  True.

  But, since that horse was out of the barn, she wasn’t going to worry about Sam’s regrets or his futile attempts at damage control. Instead, she was going to do exactly what she wanted to do.

  She stood up and headed for the door. Ten minutes later, she was standing at the end of the Pleasure Pier. The water here was rougher, the waves hitting hard against the piers and the surrounding rocks. The words coming to mind were churned up, wild, and—thanks to the choppy water where the incoming water broke—unexpected current. This was no postcard-perfect slice of beach, and swimming here would likely be lethal.

  Absolutely perfect for what she had in mind.

  * * *

  MIA HUNG OVER the edge of the pier glaring at the water. The last time she’d been out on the pier, she’d panicked. She didn’t look spooked, but Tag wouldn’t risk her safety. After he’d seen her tear out here like her hair was on fire, following was a no-brainer.

  The closer he got, however, the less sure he was that this was a flashback. “Are you okay?”

  In fact, if looks could kill, he’d be a dead man. “I’d say so,” she bit out.

  “Tell me.”

  Whatever it was, he’d fix it. She gave him a disgusted look, clearly marshaling her words. Sam jogged up behind him. “Sorry, man. I put my foot in it.”

  Great. So whatever it was, it involved wonder boy. He bit back a curse. The assessment wasn’t fair to Sam. He was a good man, a good soldier. It certainly wasn’t his fault Tag hated the way Mia looked at him, as if she was wondering if Sam might be a keeper.

  He leaned against the rail next to her.

  “Is Sam spilling secrets?” Best to know what he was up against.

  She turned and glared at him. The look in her eyes was part hurt, part anger, part despair. Shit. What had Sam said? Tag’s glare had Sam retreating back to the dive shop.

  “Tell me you did not give me the nickname Sergeant Dominatrix. Because that’s the one thing I’d really like to be hearing right now.”

  Busted.

  “It was a long time ago, Mia—” Excuses. He didn’t make or take them. Except apparently he did.

  She shook her head. “Yes or no. Let’s get this clear right now.”

  “I did.”

  Her shoulders tightened visibly. He lifted a hand, dropped it. He probably wasn’t entitled to touch her right now—or ever again for that matter. He should have come clean with her, although, really, when had the moment been right to say “The nickname you hate so much? I gave it to you?”

  She went right on the offensive. “I thought better of you. Instead, you made me into the punch line for a bad sex joke.”

  Again, true. What he’d done made him feel like a jerk. He’d tossed off a one-liner, and, worse, he’d done it because his one night with Mia had meant more than he’d wanted to accept.

  “I did.”

  “As a penis-toting member of the armed services, you can have no idea how hard it is to be a female officer sometimes. The last thing I want my men to be thinking about when they look at me is sex. How I like it. What I look like doing it.” She sucked in a breath and her hands flew to her hips. “And, news flash? Just because I know what I like and I tell you? That doesn’t make me some kind of BDSM expert. It means I have good communication skills, and you suck in bed.”

  Hell. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and promise her it would never happen again. And it wouldn’t because, quite frankly, she wouldn’t be giving him the time of day, let alone allowing him back into her bed. Which was his loss, as she’d so eloquently pointed out.

  “I wanted to make it up to you,” he said. “I tried, okay?”

  Mia spared him a glance, and the look on her face wasn’t happy. Danger. She pushed the words out through gritted teeth. “Exactly how did you try to make it up to me?”

  There was no good answer to her question. Wisely, he kept silent. Plus, she clearly wasn’t done talking.

  “Would that be rescuing me on the beach? Giving me a job? Or—” she tapped her chin with her finger “—the pity sex? Because answers two and three are definitely not my favorites, and you might want to rethink your pay-it-back approach. FYI, it definitely helps if the person you owe knows she’s having makeup sex.”

  “I should have said something.”

  “Damn right.”

  “And I’m saying something now.”

  She shook her head. “This isn’t middle school where you get partial credit for late homework. I’m giving you a pass on the beach thing, but you’re on the hook for everything else.”

  “Mia—” Let’s start over? I didn’t mean it? He had no idea what to say.

  “Right.” She stared at him for a moment, but his brain was on empty, and he didn’t have any words to give.
They both knew what he should have done—and he hadn’t done it. He had no one to blame but himself.

  Apparently coming to the same conclusion, she tugged at his ring on her finger, and he held his hand out. She looked down at his empty hand, then flicked her gaze back up to his face. “You know what? I don’t think so.”

  She wound up and hurled the ring over the bay. She had a good arm. The ring hit the riptide dead on and sank.

  * * *

  TAG HALF SHOVED OFF the side of the pier, as if he was seriously considering going in after his ring. The reaction seemed a tad excessive for cubic zirconia, but maybe it was the principle of the thing.

  “Shit,” he bit out. “That was a ten-thousand dollar ring.”

  Oops. “You bought me a real ring?”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “I did.”

  How deep was the water here? Ripples where the ring had gone in slowly faded. Not so much as an X marked the spot where she’d chucked the band. Yeah. Story of her life. She had the real thing, and she threw it away.

  “Buying real jewelry wasn’t part of our deal, Tag. A fake engagement means fake diamonds. Why would you go and buy the real thing?”

  He looked at her. “Does it matter? The ring is fish food.”

  Did it matter? Yeah, probably. But not because she was worried about throwing the equivalent of several months salary into the ocean. He’d bought her a real ring. Did that mean that he...wanted a real engagement? She’d told him over and over that she didn’t want the real deal. He was her practice man and not her happily-ever-after guy. But what if she’d been wrong? What if he wanted more and that was why he’d picked out diamonds just for her?