“That’s definitive,” he drawled.
And Skye found herself sharing something few knew who hadn’t seen her birth certificate. “My full name is Skylark.”
“No shit?” he said with genuine surprise. “After the bird?”
“After the song. Johnny Mercer song. From the 40s.”
Finally, he smiled, broad and charming and easy, and oh how she wished he hadn’t. She could hold her own against surly Grant. Charming, lovely, smiling Grant heralded her downfall. “Your parents named you after a torch song?”
“My mother did. My father wasn’t there at the time. Business.”
“Yeah, I know that tune.” She couldn’t tell if he meant her namesake or her father’s frequently used excuse for never being where and when she needed him—and not caring that she did. “Skylark,” Grant said, low and deep, rolling the word on his tongue in a way that made her breasts swell. “Skylark Thorn.” Mild confusion creased his brow. “I’ll admit, you’re a conundrum. Can’t pin you down. Which is a first, really, considering my business.” Softened, his smile turned a bit wicked. “I like it.”
He’d pinned her down before, literally, moving over and in her body, a raging tide pulling her under fierce waves of pleasure over and over till she happily drowned.
“Your business?” He’d been a security guard at her sister’s wedding, but now she had to wonder if there was more to it. It seemed too simple an answer. Too basic an occupation for someone so clearly wired for more.
His chin jerked with surprise. “You don’t know.” It wasn’t a question, more a pleased realization. “I figured…let’s just say that you’re not the first naked woman I’ve found in my pool. More than one SEAL bunny has made it over my fence back home.”
“I thought they were called pups.”
“Huh?”
“Seal babies. I thought they were called pups, not bunnies. Wouldn’t babies be too big and unwieldy to get over a fence? Though manatees will swim right up to the edge of a dock even with people on it. I guess seals could get over a fence with enough motivation.”
He looked in serious doubt of her sanity. “What in the ever-loving hell are you rambling about?”
“The seal bunnies that made it over your fence,” she repeated with a thread of frustration. “Seals. Big mammals,” she added warming to the topic. She’d seen huge seals once off the coast of La Jolla, California, big bucks who’d flopped over rocky outcroppings so smooth and quick, it looked like they were sliding down a treadmill. “Occasionally tusked.” Her fingers formed fangs in front of her mouth to demonstrate her point.
He sputtered and a spray of beer landed on his shirt. “Shit,” he choked out. Then there was a minute of him struggling to breathe around hilarity that Skye felt sure was aimed at her, but danged if she could figure out why. “That was damn funny,” he finally managed.
“I can see that.” And it warmed her inside to be the reason his face eased into a semblance of the good-humored man she’d known before.
He set the bottle down on his way back around the counter. “I’m not talking about seal babies as in big mammals from the sea. I’m talking about SEAL bunnies, women who want to hook up with a SEAL. That’s what I am. I’m a Navy SEAL. Sea, Air, and Land. We’re trained for all three fields of combat.” He chuckled again and looked surprised by it. “Christ, you’re a freaking riot.”
“I am not,” she snapped to cover her embarrassment. A Navy SEAL?! Suddenly everything made sense in a horribly humiliating way. She might come from a class that didn’t let its sons and daughters sign up to serve, but you couldn’t live in Florida and not at least be aware of the Navy bases and the men who train there. Not to mention, one of the bridal consultants was married to a former SEAL who was now a bestselling writer.
“God, I am such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” he said with wry affection. “You’re adorable.” His hand was back on her neck, giving it a squeeze. “Been a long time since a civilian didn’t know what I was before they knew who I was. It’s…refreshing.”
“You said you couldn’t get a fix on me.” He nodded, his face returning to that wary curiosity. “Well, I can’t figure you out either,” she admitted. Throat dry, she went for broke. What, really, did she have to lose? “You want me,” she stated, grateful the tremor in her hand didn’t come out in her voice. “You want to…fuck me.”
His fingers flexed on her neck, betraying him. She saw that her blunt words had shocked him. Good. She wanted to shock, wanted to shake that stern façade that returned as soon as his humor faded.
Slowly, something like admiration tinted his fabulous eyes. “I do,” he agreed, unknowingly giving her the compliment of being likewise blunt. She was used to men talking over and around her. Grant could have no idea the respect he gave simply by being straight with her.
Well trained, Skye pushed her advantage. “And yet, I remain…unfucked.” She stumbled only a little over the second obscenity, unaccustomed to its use if not its flavor. His eyes flared at the repetition, with desire, yes, he wasn’t hiding that, but also—annoyance? She tried to look deeper, past the distracting bias of his looks and her memories. Yes, he was definitely annoyed with her. Like he had any right, the jerk. “You can imagine my confusion.”
That gleam of green swept down her chest to the flare of her hips, settling there for a moment, his face suddenly full of…well…sex.
“I can definitely imagine.” His drawl was deliberately lewd and somehow beneath them both.
“At this rate, imagining is as far as you’ll get.”
“I see the bitch is back. Pretty mouth like yours shouldn’t use such language.”
“I’m not 12,” she snapped, incensed by his scold. “Or your sister.”
“You sure as hell are not,” he agreed. His tone could’ve sheared off a layer of skin. He stepped back into her space, not crowding this time, but letting her feel the heat of his body up close. More intimidation tactics.
She could smell the cologne on him and underneath, the lingering whiff of the ocean. She wondered if all SEALs carried that with them, spent so much time in the water, they held its scent in their skin, a pheromone aligned to the sea.
His head dipped down to hers again until his stern face filled her vision. Fascinated, she watched the muscle in his cheek flex, pulling the skin taut against his high cheekbone and the lean blade of his overlarge nose. He should be modeling for marble statues in ancient Greece. Skye’s belly inverted, but she glared up at him, so over his attitude, she didn’t even care anymore.
“Yeah, I want you,” he said in that deep voice that sent shivers skipping down her spine. “I want to pick you up and take you back into that bedroom and find all those places where you’re still wet.”
She felt herself go damp at the suggestion, but kept her chin lifted and held his gaze. Bring it on, water boy.
His mouth tightened into a lean hyphen and a faint note of regret dusted the space between them. “You got me on the wrong night, nymphie,” he said, curt and final.
He’s wounded.
It radiated off him, the restrained snarl of a damaged predator. He was protecting his wounded side, an injured dog barking at the perceived threat, when the last thing she wished him was injury.
In a flash, Skye saw their entire encounter from his perspective: he’d come back from main resort, looking for the chance to lick his wounds, alone, only to find a naked stranger swimming in his pool. He didn’t remember her; to Grant, she was an intruder, the presumptuous maid who thought she could do what she liked when the guests weren’t present. And instead of calling the front desk and getting her (justifiably) fired, he’d ignored her totally inappropriate advances, made sure she got dressed and warmed up, and was trying to get her out of his (temporary) house without literally throwing her out of it.
God, she really was an idiot. Here, she’d thought to use this man, like she had before, to exorcise her own emotional trauma, ghosts he’d had a hand i
n conjuring, however great his ignorance of it. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was actually trying to protect her, from himself if not her own self-sabotaging impulse.
She hadn’t spared a thought for his feelings, hadn’t thought for one moment of him as a person. She really was a Thornquist with all the loathsome, selfish entitlement that came with the name, that one family heirloom she couldn’t discard because too much of her life was entwined with it.
She saw now, too late, the haunts of his own apparitions. If prodded, she knew he’d deny them, but it had been too weird of a night, too revelatory. She felt open to—everything, vulnerable and sensitive beyond what her brain could tabulate, graced with an otherworldly perception that fancied she could see the deep slices in Grant where something had carved out the man she’d briefly known and left this scary bruiser in his place.
Except she wasn’t scared.
Not even the tiniest bit.
And, she realized with a jolt of crushing regret, it wasn’t her job to confront the demons that plague this man.
This stranger.
“Wrong night,” she repeated, and she was cold and full of steel without any need for a stupid mantra. “Yes, I see that now. Of course. Forgive me for inconveniencing you.”
It was a professional exit line, one that would have extracted her from the most awkward of social gaffs, but, as it turned out, not a Navy SEAL.
She moved to break free of the cage made by his body, but met the immovable wall of his muscled chest when he simply blocked her. Cripes, was he made of cement? “If you’d kindly move out of my way, I’d be happy to leave you to your evening.” Unable to meet his eyes again, she said the words to his tanned throat, the tendon stretched sharp under tanned, weathered skin. Tears bit the backs of her eyes, restrained only by her breeding and the conviction that she would not cry before this man, not for anything.
Despite everything, Skye had the crazy urge to run her lips up that long column and over the faint stubble on his chin on her way to his generous mouth. She was spent, her ragged pride and crazy, see-sawing emotions stomped under the booted heel of his continued rejection, a refusal she now knew had not one thing to do with her.
And if he’d taken her up on it? She would’ve been only another faceless female to him, and there was already enough of that in her life. She was inconsequential to him, as she had always been in her family.
Though not so inconsequential that he’d let her go.
He angled her head up to that mouth she’d fantasized about seconds ago. “I may need to let you go, for your sake more than mine, even if you don’t believe that, but first, I want a taste.”
He tugged her up the last inch and Skye went willingly, already gone, wanting that taste, at least that, to take away for herself from this horrible, humiliating night.
The firm press of his lips against hers was as new as it was remembered. Maybe it was because she was sober this time or because a lot could be forgotten in six months. But she felt she should’ve remembered how a simple kiss could so completely short-circuit her brain.
His tongue didn’t press for access, nor did he shove her back against the counter and force her to take it. There was no lack of intensity; this was a man who meant to have more of her. But not now. Not at this moment. Instead, Skye felt somehow savored. A kiss not lacking passion, but not sloppy either, and with too much unexpected tenderness that threatened to finally undo her.
Exactly the way a first kiss should be.
Even if it wasn’t one.
His green gaze bore into hers throughout, allowing no closed-eye escape from the intensity magnified by its simplicity. This close, she saw the gray that splintered his irises, turning them into a frosty color that belied the heat between them.
Slowly, he lifted his lips from hers, but she chased after them, eager for more of his temporary affection. He kissed her again and it was as soothing a balm as the first. She felt increasingly turned on even as she wanted to curl into his strong arms and just be. I don’t remember this. It couldn’t have been like this between them before. She would’ve remembered that.
If he had shown her this was in his kiss, she would’ve never, ever left.
He released her again and, drained completely, she had no energy to chase after more. “Damn, baby. Sweetest taste I’ve ever had.” His words vibrated against her lips.
“Last taste,” she replied, a little breathless, somewhat lost in the fog of his kiss, but not totally without brain cells yet.
“You think?” And this time, she didn’t have to wonder if she entertained him. The humor was plain, actually twinkling in his eyes, and for a moment he almost resembled the man she once briefly knew.
Almost.
Not that it mattered anymore. Her hands slipped down from his shoulders, traitorously enjoying the curve of sculpted muscle along the way.
“I-” She cleared her dry throat, mortified that she had to. “I need to get my things.”
“Yeah.” For a moment, he stayed in her space, making her wonder if he’d change his mind—and whether she had the self-respect to retract her offer. When he eased back, taking a step to the side so she had a clear path, she squelched a flare of disappointment.
On shaky knees, Skye retrieved her cleaning caddy from the master bath, feeling his eyes tracking her the whole way like a physical touch on her skin.
At the door, she stopped, squaring her shoulders to turn back at the last. He hadn’t moved, was at the bar, arms crossed over his broad chest, mouth set in a hard line of unrefined distemper.
She marshalled all her poise to ask, “Will you report me?”
“For the swim?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She paused a minute to maintain hold of her scurrying emotions. “Thank you.”
“Don’t,” he said, his words a whip crack that made her flinch. “You owe me, nymph.” And now his mouth curved up into a cruel smile. “Wait to thank me till after I collect.”
Skye let the outrage overtake her, sweeping her emotional overload out under a wave of fresh temper. “Look, I apologized. Obviously, I made a huge, embarrassing blunder. You’re being decent enough not to report me. I appreciate that. But don’t for a moment think there’ll be a—a—replay of tonight’s misguided offer.” She yanked open the door and stepped across the threshold, so close to escape. She bent on him her haughtiest look, determined to at least leave this disaster of a reunion with a shred of her pride. “Thank you for the tea. Enjoy the rest of your stay at Casa Blanca.”
She marched down the paver-stone path, too attuned for comfort to the man who’d come to stand in the open door, his presence so palpable, it felt like he was right behind her when he said, “Aw, sweetheart. You misunderstood. You got the wrong night. Not the wrong man.”
Chapter Four
The gunshot woke Grant up mid-shout.
“Maverick!”
He shot up straight in bed, breathing hard. Teeth clenched, he checked the room in precise sections, corner by corner, his chest a rusty squeeze box, wheezing air in and out.
Clear.
Jesus.
Panic slicked his chest with sweat; his pillow was soaked, an imprint of his head clear in the moist spot left on the linen. He dropped back in the bed, hands lifting to rub at the ache in his temples, an ache made worse when he clonked himself with the butt of his gun.
He gaped at the weapon in his hand, a weapon he had no memory of taking out of the bedside nightstand.
When had he grabbed the gun?
The shot had been so loud. So real. For a moment, he’d even felt Mav’s blood on his face.
Fucking evil flashback.
Christ, what a cluster.
His sweaty body slipped against the smooth glide of expensive sheets as he slid to the edge of the bed. Legs over the side, he replaced the gun on top of the nightstand and dropped his head in his hands, elbows to his knees.
The dreams were getting worse. He was getting worse.
Clinically, he could tally the signs. He was a trained psychiatrist; he could assess his own goddam PTSD. Not that it did him jack to professionally note he was unraveling more every day. Even Barefoot Bay with all its remembered luxury and coveted isolation couldn’t work magic on his turmoil.
He rubbed the base of his skull where the faint echo of the dream lingered. What he wouldn’t give for a night’s sleep with no dreams. A treasure without value until he’d lost it.
At least he was alone. No curvy challenge of a cleaning lady to freak the fuck out with his trauma. Dodged that bullet, however tempting her casing. Main reason he hadn’t shared a bed in six months was to avoid scaring the shit out of some unsuspecting woman who just wanted to get laid.
Though she’d been more than that, his water nymph. Even as he’d let her go—a thing Jasper would’ve kicked his ass for if he knew—Grant knew she was a puzzle with moving pieces.
A challenge. One he felt, for the first time in a while, up for.
But not last night. Not when need throbbed off her like a bass line, heavy and steady with a weight of responsibility he was not capable of handling right now. Maybe never again. He hadn’t wanted to be her version of a SEAL bunny, there for her to fuck out her issues, a smack on the ass and a distracted “I’ll call you” his morning reward.
“Skye,” he murmured to himself. “Skylark,” he corrected with a mental note to look up the song lyrics. A classy girl like that—and there was a ton of class under that maid uniform—named after a torch song. Yet it fit her somehow; she’d burned with need and he’d snuffed her out, almost cruelly.
For her own good. Or maybe his. Who the fuck knew at this point?
He wasn’t done with her; that much he did know. She intrigued him, with her too-heavy makeup and uncomfortable seduction techniques. She was gutsy, no doubt, and proud, Jesus, was she proud, the kind that was stamped on her DNA from conception and radiated in the tilt of her chin, the angle of her nose, the line of her spine.
But she’d been out of her comfort zone from the moment she’d climbed out of the pool, mostly faking it and doing it pretty damn well. She was on a mission to bang him, and who he was didn’t matter. Which, he was man enough to admit, stung, even if it was a bit of his own medicine turned back on him.
Barefoot Bay: SEALed With a Twist (Kindle Worlds) Page 6