Men Out of Uniform: 6 Book Omnibus

by Rhonda Russell

  God help her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Geez God, how long did it take to shower? Huck wondered helplessly as the continued noise--and the ensuing vision of hot naked skin, wet and supple and welcoming--plagued him. Though he was probably lying on mattress which cost more than his entire bedroom suite, he couldn’t get comfortable. He chuckled miserably.

  Hard to get comfortable when he had a blazing erection from hell straining against his shorts.

  Because of her.

  He seriously couldn’t believe that his body was doing this to him, betraying him to a pampered little rich girl who more than likely didn’t have a clue how the other half lived. How women like his mother had struggled to keep a roof over her head, food on the table and clothes on their backs by constantly cleaning up after someone else.

  Huck knew painted her with a broad brush, but couldn’t seem to help himself. If he didn’t keep reminding himself of all of her faults and unfairly stereotyping her into a neat little box, he was horribly afraid he’d snap and do something, if not unforgivable, then at least unforgivably stupid.

  Like like her.

  And if he liked her, he’d seduce her.

  And that... He shifted miserably, felt a single bead of moisture leak from his dick. Well that was just too ignorant to comprehend.

  Though it took every available brain cell, Huck forced himself to focus on what he’d learned tonight. While he hadn’t come any closer to finding out who was sending Stravos the letters about his daughter--and he’d shopped more today than in the past year of his life--he still felt like the day wasn’t a total bust.

  Meeting Stravos had been an interesting experience, but unfortunately had only left him with more questions than answers--the biggest, of course, being why was Sapphira afraid of him. And better still, why did Huck feel the pressing urge to protect her from him? He wished he could deny the feeling, wished that he could will it away--whatever problem existed between them was none of his business and wasn’t his mission to fix.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t shake the sensation that despite her wealth and privilege, Sapphira was like the proverbial bird in a gilded cage. Why else did she continue to live on the estate? Why hadn’t she gone to work? He knew she had a degree. If she hadn’t planned on using it, then why had she bothered with school at all? She’d graduated summa cum laude from Wellesley College--he’d seen the framed diploma in her living room. The wherewithal to manage that feat sure as hell didn’t coincide with the unconcerned socialite shopoholic he’d seen in action today.

  Put simply, none of it added up.

  Secondly, watching the interaction between Sapphira and Ella had been particularly heartening. Sapphira obviously adored her former nanny--a helpful point he’d found in the file, along with Flanagan’s “Good cook!” note scrawled into the margin. From what he’d been able to discern, Ella had hired on within a week of the birth of the Stravos’ first child, Nicky, and had been with them ever since.

  Though at twenty-six Sapphira was well past the needing-a-nanny phase, for whatever reason--in what he could only assume was either a rare act of kindness or sheer convenience--Stravos had kept her on. On salary? Who knew? But on the estate, certainly, and for Sapphira’s sake.

  Furthermore, though she hadn’t told him as much, after visiting Ella’s cottage, it was obvious given the newer fixtures and appliances in Sapphira’s house that hers was merely a replica of her nanny’s. Odd that, Huck thought. With her resources she could have hired a premiere architect and built any sort of house her imagination could have dreamed up. Instead, she’d opted for a carbon copy of her nanny’s home. That was very telling, Huck decided. It told him that she was closer to her father’s hired help than she was to her own family.

  Frankly, though his mother had never been a nanny, she’d had clients develop a similar affection for her. To the extent of Sapphira and Ella? No. His mother had never been that accessible, had always refused to live on site and had insisted that she maintain her own residence.

  Because of him, Huck was sure.

  When she came home at the end of the day, he’d never had to share her with anyone. Other than his grandmother, of course, but he’d never minded. They’d been close, Huck realized now, swallowing. He should probably thank her for that.

  And he’d really never missed having a father, which made his sudden inescapable quest to find out the man’s identity all the more strange. It didn’t make any sense and yet he knew he’d never be able to rest until he knew. Had Huck wondered about him in the past? Certainly. And now that he had the time to focus some attention to the matter, he desperately wanted to know who the man was. He didn’t want to know him, per se, and sure as hell didn’t want to meet him. He just wanted the bastard’s name and a face to put with it. He passed a hand over his jaw.

  And he wished he didn’t want that, because it felt like a betrayal to the mother who had loved and raised him so thoroughly.

  At long last, Huck finally heard the shower stop and breathed a monumental sigh of relief. Why? Who knew? She was still dewy soft, wet and naked, those mocha curls smoothed away from her face and hanging down her back, beads of moisture clinging to her lashes...and other more intimate places. Another wave of heat washed over his throbbing loins.

  Though the door to his guest bedroom was shut, he imagined being able to smell her soap, something clean and fruity with an orange blossom finish. Imagined walking up behind her, filling his hands with her breasts and nestling his dick against the sweet warm V of her ripe bottom. Mercy, how he loved her ass. Biting her neck and feeling her quake against him, feel her sigh, weaken and tremble for him. Feel her arch into--

  A knock sounded at his door, jerking him out of the fantasy. He shifted guilty and put the file he’d been looking at awkwardly over his lap. “Yes?”

  Looking just as warm, wet and sexy as he’d imagined--complete with the sweet citrus scent--Sapphira poked her head into the room, careful to keep the rest of her body out in the hall. He could make out the top of a worn chenille robe and inwardly winced when he realized she was probably completely naked beneath the garment. Impossibly, more blood pooled in the fiery pit of his loins. “I just wanted to make sure that you found everything.” She gestured toward his en suite bath. “Towels, soap and the like.”

  He nodded, wishing he could breathe. “I’m going to make one more sweep of the perimeter, check the locks and all before I shower and hit the sack.”

  Her eyes widened a bit and she nervously cleared her throat. “You’re going to c-come into my room?”

  Huck studied her and felt a slow smile spread across his lips. “Yeah. Does that bother you?”

  He could only think of one reason it could and it absolutely tickled the hell out of him. Evidently he wasn’t the only person battling an unwanted attraction. Now that was an interesting turn of events--potentially disastrous, of course--but interesting all the same, Huck thought, irrationally pleased. How had he missed it? he wondered now as he watched her slightly anxious face, observed the dilated pupils, the way she worried that lush bottom lip. Classic signs of sexual interest and he typically credited himself with a keen sense of insight...yet he’d missed them.

  Probably because he’d been so worried about masking his own galling attraction, he decided, letting this new discovery inflate his ego right along with his miserably aching penis.

  She moistened her lips and lifted her chin. “Not at all,” she said. “I just wondered if you were going to do it from the outside.”

  “I can,” he offered, smiling, his gaze tangling pointedly with hers. “If that makes you more comfortable.”

  She smirked at him. “That’s okay. I’m comfortable in my own house, thank you.”

  “You should probably put on some clothes before I come in there,” he suggested helpfully. “You wouldn’t want me to get the wrong impression.” Or the right one, Huck added silently, thoroughly enjoying himself at her expense.

  She clutched the top of h
er robe, making sure the lapels were completely shut. She looked sexy as hell and strangely vulnerable in that moment, Huck thought. “Well, you’re wrong about so much I can easily see you leaping to the wrong conclusion. I’m a light sleeper, so be quiet when you come in. Good night, Huckleberry.”

  “Not by a long shot,” he said, chuckling softly.

  But he had to admit it had just gotten better.

  * * *

  Effectively shut down from doing any in-the-trenches work, Sapphira spent the majority of the next day and afternoon working on the computer. Any time she caught Huck looking over her shoulder--or anywhere in her direction, for that matter--she pulled up fashion Web sites and the occasional celebrity blog. She made sure to do a lot of loud sighing and tried to look bored out of her skull.

  Frankly, she was neither.

  The truth of the matter was that she liked her little house and the last eleven days of being the world’s biggest pain in the ass had been quite taxing. In short, she’d been exhausted and staying home was the perfect cure.

  Furthermore, she’d been communicating with several people in her office as well as managed to get a quick instant message to Carmen to let her know that she’d make the appointment tomorrow if it killed her. How was she going to handle that with Huck? Sapphira wasn’t altogether sure at this point. But she would manage. She always did.

  Last night when she’d been pretending to be asleep when he’d slipped into her room to make sure her locks were secure--as though she couldn’t have handled that herself--she’d decided against bombarding him with a list of places to go. Sorting through a list of fabricated, frivolous errands generated to annoy him would not endear him to her. Better that she simply wait until the opportune moment and let him know that she had a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning.

  She’d also managed to get a few emails to and from Cindy and, much to her pleasure and relief, last night’s mentoring session had gone well. Reverend Alton had asked about her continued absence, but Cindy had managed to smooth it over, assuring him that Sapphira hadn’t abandoned the project, but had merely been out of touch for the past couple of weeks.

  Naturally, Cindy had been more interested in her first night with Huck than talking Belle Charities, but Sapphira had managed to mostly avoid the topic of her hunky bodyguard by citing her lack of privacy and limited time. Had they been on the phone, then her friend would have no doubt detected the sheer unadulterated lust in her voice, the very tone she hoped with all her heart didn’t come across to Mr. Ego. The look he’d given her last night when she’d slipped up and mentioned him coming into her room, had been absolutely mortifying.

  He knew.

  And she could, quite simply, kick herself.

  She’d managed to pull off acting like a superficial prima donna for the past eleven days, then had dropped the ball on something like that? Irritation churned in her humiliated gut. If there were any way to kick her own ass, she’d do it.

  She hadn’t lied when she’d told him she was a light sleeper, however, for the majority of the night sleep had completely eluded her and what few winks she’d managed to achieve had been fitful and punctuated with erotic dreams of him. The bastard-sonofabitch-asshole, she silently added just to amuse herself.

  Now that had been a first.

  Sapphira had never had a so-called wet dream before. Oh, she’d once dreamed of kissing Johnny Depp, but that was only after watching that pirate movie of his half a dozen times. No, this wasn’t anything like that at all. Frankly, she’d almost bet a real kiss by the real Johnny Depp would pale in comparison to the mere dream she’d had of Huck.

  Honestly, she didn’t know whether or not he’d peeked into her room earlier in the day and therefore knew the layout of her suite, but the man didn’t even have to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He’d walked unerringly to all three windows in her room, systematically checking the locks, then had moved into her bathroom. Knowing he would do this, she’d purposely put all sorts of feminine products--nail polish and remover, astringent, lotion, a box of tampons, her birth control pills, etc...--in the windowsill just to trip him up.

  He hadn’t disturbed a single thing.

  Then the wretch had had the nerve to come stand at the foot of her bed long enough to make her want to howl and had laughed softly, muttered a “Nice try, Princess,” then had quietly left her room to return to his across the hall. And that wasn’t far enough.

  By then, though, it had been too late. Her quarters had been contaminated with his potent sex-appeal cooties and she’d turned into a miserable, aching wreck who’d wished she’d thought to bring some air freshener into her room to eliminate that wonderfully masculine smell.

  His scent.

  No doubt that lingering aroma had played a serious factor in her inescapable dream. Hot, hard body, supple muscle, smooth skin, that skillful mouth feasting upon her breasts, over her belly and ultimately between her legs. It had been the strangest--most real--thing. She’d literally felt him there to the point that she’d woken up in the middle of climax, her body dewy and quaking, and ultimately aching for him. Then, because she was a moron, she’d tried to fall asleep again immediately afterward so that she might recapture the magic and continue the dream.

  She didn’t, of course, but had to admit the human mind was a seriously powerful thing.

  Her gaze slid across the room to where Huck sat, tapping away on his own computer. Other than a couple of trips to the bathroom, he’d been right there with her all day. Pinging her with his presence. Making her miserable. Her muddled belly gave a little flutter and a wash of heat engulfed her sex, causing her feminine muscles to clench. She forcibly squelched a whimper.

  He looked up at her. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, why?” she asked innocently.

  “You made a noise.”

  “It’s a silent scream of boredom.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Give it up. You’re not bored.”

  She gaped at him. “How the hell would you know?”

  “You’ve been too busy to be bored.”

  Sapphira closed her own laptop and stared at him. “Are you on crack?” she asked, feigning incredulity. “I haven’t been busy. I’ve been surfing the internet, filling my head with important celebrity gossip and fashion tips. Did you know that purple is supposed to be the new black this fall?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he replied amiably. “And I can honestly say that I don’t give a damn.” He paused. “But you have not been bored. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been happy.”

  She felt a flush of heat climb her neck and decided that she’d better convince him that it was anger. “Happy? Happy? I’ve been your prisoner here all day. I’ve listened to you insult my dog, whine about my lack of proper snacks--like I’m supposed to know what sort of chips you prefer--and listen to you breathe all day long.”

  He chuckled and quirked a brow. “You don’t like listening to me breathe?” he asked. “Would you prefer the alternative?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I’d just prefer that you do your breathing somewhere else. Like Portugal,” she added sweetly.

  He paused, and a frightening flash of unreadable emotion lit up that keen hawk-like gaze. She didn’t know what imaginary line she’d crossed, but was suddenly aware that she’d gone too far. “Funny,” he finally said. “I didn’t get the impression you wanted me somewhere else last night.”

  Mortified, Sapphira sprang up. “Of, for the love of God. I saw the look on your smug face last night, Hot Shot, and I’ve got news for you. I think you’re laboring under the mistaken impression that I like you.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t.”

  Still smiling--oh, how she ached to wipe that self-satisfied look off his face--he merely shrugged. “You don’t have to like me to want me.”

  She felt the floor shift beneath her feet and almost staggered from embarrassment. “W-want you?” she breathed, feigning outrage. “Have y
ou lost your mind?”

  “Nope. And I haven’t lost my hearing either.”

  She blinked, confused, though a hollow sense of dread had filled her stomach and spread to the point she couldn’t feel her fingertips. “I’m sorry?”

  “I heard you, Sapphira,” he said knowingly. “Last night.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.” A sneaking suspicion had taken hold, but it was too horrible--too mortifying--to contemplate.

  “You called my name. Come to think of it, it was more of moan,” he added, thoughtfully stroking his jaw. “I thought you needed help.”

  Her legs no longer able to support her, Sapphira sagged onto the nearest chair. He’d heard her sex dream, the one in which he’d had the starring, orgasm-inducing role? Dear God, where was a good hole when you needed one? She’d been embarrassed before. She’d walked out of the restroom with toilet paper stuck to her shoe, and she’d once did a combo sneeze/fart in an elevator full of college football players, but nothing--nothing--compared to this. “You, er...” She cleared her throat. “You came into my r-room again?”

  “No,” he said. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, looking pleased but just a bit uncomfortable. Probably wishing he hadn’t let his ego loosen his tongue. “I figured out what was going on before it ever got to that point.”

  A small comfort, she thought hollowly as humiliation saturated every pore in her body and manifested itself in a full-body blush.

  He’d heard her.

  If anything this embarrassing had ever happened to her before, her mind had blocked it from her memory. She wished her bloody amazing mind would teleport her to Portugal.

  For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say. Somehow a “That’s nice” seemed just a little too inane. Rather than respond, Sapphira stood and started to leave the room.

  Huck suddenly rose out of the chair and stopped her with the sheer force of his size. She almost landed against his chest, and was actually angry when she didn’t. How screwed up was that? That she still wanted to touch him--feel him, even accidentally--after this.