Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle

by Mary Margret Daughtridge

  Lucas and he had some of the same character traits. Lucky for him, his dad had been a good man and a good husband. David knew what a good husband looked like.

  He wouldn’t be JJ’s husband for long, but as long as he was, he would give her all he had to give. He would start with sharing some of her load.

  He stroked one finger down her cheek. “Give in gracefully, JJ.”

  She straightened her shoulders and nodded. “I’ll figure out something so tomorrow—”

  She had already jumped to how to handle tomorrow. Did she ever live in the present? “JJ, how ’bout we take this one day at a time. Snatch would probably be all right, but you’ll feel better if he’s not alone today. I won’t let Lucas overdo, but I can let him show me around. I think he’s enjoyed having someone new to tell his stories to.”

  “But I’m sure you have things you’d rather do.”

  “I’d rather be operating.” Too late he realized how that sounded, but there was no way to backtrack. “I can hang around here as good as I can Virginia Beach.”

  He stroked her cheek. “What will you do today since I’ve got Lucas and the dog handled?”

  “I’ll go to my ballroom dance lesson at five o’clock. I had thought I would have to be here to relieve whoever was with Snatch.”

  “Ballroom dance?”

  “My indulgence. I justify it by saying it’s great exercise.”

  “Why do you have to justify it?”

  “It doesn’t have much to do with the car business. I throw away a lot of money on it with nothing to show for it. The exercise is just a side benefit.” She ducked her head, as if she was embarrassed. “I only do it because I like it. Lucas doesn’t know. Don’t tell him, okay?”

  Just for a second, she looked adorably young, anxious, yet thrilled by her daring. There was no trace of the cool, strategizing businesswoman, the harried executive. The emerald of her eyes lit with deep-green fire. The protectiveness he always seemed to feel around her (even though she had no use for it) turned into something warmer, softer, more encompassing. He smiled into the heart of that green fire.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “That I’d like to kiss you.”

  She scraped her full lower lip with her shapely white teeth. Thinking. The lip was plumper, redder, shining with moisture. “Maybe you should.”

  Was she flirting? “Maybe?”

  She swept her lashes down, then up. “We won’t know for sure unless you try.”

  She was flirting all right. Tilting her head at the same time, she set her jaw at a challenging angle. He wanted to crow in triumph. He got flirting.

  With one finger, he traced the neckline of her sweater. He made his voice deeper. Smoother. “So. You’re proposing an experiment?”

  “Right.” She did the lash-sweep thing again. Tiny mysterious smile. “For science.”

  He closed the space between them. Their shoes met. “Then you know it will take more than one trial to be sure of the results?”

  Her breath hitched. Delicate nostrils flared. But she didn’t fall back, body language for “I’m not ready,” or move sideways, body language for “I want more play before we go to the next level.” Her eyes went to his lips. “I guess.”

  He drew her toward him slowly, smiling into her eyes, forcing her just a little off balance, and, yes, her arms went to his shoulders. Oh yeah, he liked her off balance, and this time it felt good, purely good. Her lips opened. He was about to die from the sleek, soft female feel of her. Even touching her back turned him on. And her scent. He could get drunk on it. He had her, and by God, she had him. Some demon made him want to tease her just a little bit more. He let her feel his arousal. “In fact, we may need a series of trials before we have anything statistically significant.”

  She dug her fingers into his shoulder impatiently. “Don’t you think we should get started then?”

  “Oh, well.” He drew her closer. Her breasts flattened against his chest. With his lips hovering just an inch above hers, he whispered, “A SEAL will do anything for science.”

  “What did you finally name the dog?” Bronwyn’s voice coming from the cell phone asked. She had caught JJ on her way to her dance lesson.

  “Snatch.”

  “Snatch? No! Tell me you didn’t.”

  JJ signaled a left turn and moved into the center lane. “What’s the matter with Snatch?”

  “I know you hang around socially with people twice your age, but do you live in a glass bubble? Do you never get around anyone who talks trash?”

  The stoplight changed from amber to red just as JJ reached the intersection. “Trash? Like slang? Uh-oh. I’m getting a bad feeling. What does it mean?”

  “A portion of the female anatomy. Female genitalia. The mons. The vulva.”

  “Really?” JJ gasped. “No. Employees use euphemisms, but no one would ever use crude slang around me, unless I used it first. And I wouldn’t.”

  Bronwyn, the ER doctor, had no such hesitation. “Cunt, pussy. Actually some authorities believe pussy originated as a slang form of the Greek word pudendum, which was a Victorian euphemism.” Sometimes Bronwyn liked to show off her brains.

  “Pudendum? That sounds worse than snatch.”

  “Maybe it is. Translated literally, snatch just means, well, snatch. Pudendum means shame.”

  “Eeww. And yet it was considered a nice word?”

  “Well, I’m telling you, snatch isn’t. In slang, snatch is on a par with cunt.”

  The light finally changed to a green arrow. “That man! If you could have seen the offhand way he said, ‘Then I suppose you wouldn’t like Snatch.’ Just wait. I’m going to get him. I’m going to get him good.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Chapter 38

  JJ WHIPPED THE LEXUS INTO THE PARKING LOT OF THE dance studio, dodged two new potholes, and pulled into a parking space at two past five. She grabbed a tote containing a cobalt-blue practice skirt, a cotton-and-Lycra T-shirt, and her dancing shoes; shoved her purse under the seat; and jumped from the car, already racing for the wide concrete steps.

  Penned in between two strip malls, defrocked of crosses and stained glass, the brick building still was identifiable as a former church by its high roof and the spacing of the tall windows. Once inside the glass doors, JJ turned toward what, formerly, would have been the sanctuary. It was one big open space now. Red slants of westering sun made long, glowing streaks on gleaming, real hardwood floors. In the back, an overhanging balcony kept part of the floor shadowy even when all the lights were on.

  Salsa music thumped from gigantic speakers. Somehow it didn’t clash with the room’s aura of spacious peace. Though its purpose was a very different sort of communion, the room still felt like sanctuary.

  “JJ, you are here!” Illarion, her Russian-born dance instructor rushed toward her, arms outstretched, and wrapped her in a sandalwood-scented hug. The room whirled as she was picked up and twirled, so strong and sure and fast that her legs were lifted by centrifugal force. “Oh, I am so happy you are here!” Without the smallest bobble, he set her back on her feet.

  JJ laughed. Illarion’s over-the-top ardor was impossible to take seriously. His joy was part of his professional persona.

  A canny capitalist, he never forgot he was in the business of giving people a pleasant hour of recreation. Yet, in its own way, his pleasure was also sincere—and another reason he was a sought-out dance instructor. He always made her feel desired and desirable, as if every moment in her company was a special treat, and yet he never stepped over the line that would have made her wonder what he was buttering her up for.

  “How are you?” he asked now, his bright, intense blue eyes looking deeply into hers with real pleasure—and no small amount of shrewd assessment. He never failed to notice if she changed her hair, lost a pound, or wore a different scent. “Are you well? What is different? You look…?”

  Illarion could
read bodies the way other people read the newspaper. JJ wondered if he could see the emotional whirl one Navy SEAL had thrown her into. Illarion dismissed his question with a flick of his narrow fingers. “We dance. When we will dance, day is happy, yes?”

  “I’m sorry I’m late. Two minutes,” JJ promised, re-shouldering her tote and dashing toward the ladies’ room. “Two minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

  A few minutes later, Illarion stopped their waltz to grasp the back of her skull and chin. The first time she’d tried the waltz, she’d been shocked by how different it was from what romance writers described. With gentle, masterful pressure, he corrected the position of her head. He made her elongate her neck and lift her chin and turn more so that her chin was almost over her left shoulder.

  Any kind of eye contact was impossible, and her partner’s right hand, far from being at her waist, rested precisely one inch below her left shoulder blade. Her left hand wasn’t on his shoulder. The palm lay on his right bicep, the forefinger extended across the deltoid. They were “locked in an embrace,” only compared to not touching at all. How anyone would think to hold an intense conversation under these conditions, JJ couldn’t imagine.

  Nevertheless, the writers weren’t wrong about the nature of the dance. Romance infused the gliding steps. When in tune with a partner, one floated as if in love and walking on air. Union through perfectly timed cooperation in every movement, plus the woman’s total dependence on her partner’s guidance (the dance never moved her in the direction she was looking), elicited almost mystical exhilaration.

  If she could see Illarion’s face, she would find pride of possession and restrained tenderness in his blue eyes. Illarion was very good at what he did. JJ was philosophical. The waltz gave a lovely facsimile of romance.

  Illarion led JJ into a variation of the grapevine step before he remembered she hadn’t been taught it yet. Not to his surprise, she followed without hesitation.

  “JJ, you are so good!” She stiffened slightly. He quickly swung them into a promenade, a turn, and then a deep dip that had her laughing. He had to be careful to temper the praise he gave her. Too much, and she thought he was—what did they say?—slick.

  In fact, he didn’t praise as much as she deserved. She didn’t know what a rewarding student she was. She swore she hadn’t danced before, wasn’t an athlete. Even so, she responded instantly and accurately to every instruction; she knew where her body was.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” was all she had said when he remarked on it. Furthermore, she forgot nothing between lessons, something else he’d learned not to praise since she only gave him a puzzled look. As her strength and stamina increased, he had pushed her faster and faster. She was already several levels beyond what most of his students achieved.

  She never protested when he stopped her to correct her technique. Instead, she gravely thanked him. If she wasn’t satisfied with her execution of a step, she demanded repetitions.

  Above all, she had the passion, the soul of a dancer. Oh, if he could have taught her when she was younger! Before muscles had tightened and ligaments shortened.

  While he had worked with JJ, the studio tempo had picked up. Instructors of evening lessons drifted in, greeted clients. A man Illarion hadn’t seen before entered.

  People did just wander in off the street, but this one, despite his friendly smile and cloak of casual curiosity, hadn’t.

  He had a face like a wounded angel, and the dark-green polo shirt revealed arms and shoulders to make a sculptor weep. His roving eyes fixed on JJ. He was hunting for her.

  The man, whoever he was, wanted JJ for himself. Illarion felt a little zing of heightened alertness, an atavistic response to challenge, which he was too naturally competitive to ignore.

  “JJ, no arms.” He removed his hands from her. JJ obediently dropped her arms and closed the distance between them. From chest to knees, they pressed together, offset so that his thigh rubbed hers with each step. JJ was past needing the rapport-building exercise designed to force a pair to sense the other’s body. Illarion intended it for her watcher’s benefit.

  Illarion began a simple box pattern, keeping JJ’s back to the man.

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the angel’s ruined face tighten.

  Men were such primitive creatures. Illarion should know; he was one. A romantic atmosphere was his stock in trade—ballroom dance made the promise of passion into an art form. Beneath the polished veneer, in seething messiness lay the real drama of desire and capitulation. He accepted his nature with a Russian’s earthiness and a dancer’s celebration of the body. This hard-faced man wanted JJ and, just possibly, was worthy of her. Illarion also had a Russian’s love of intrigue and a dancer’s love of drama. The wounded angel was on Illarion’s ground now. The rules of engagement were Illarion’s rules. This man it would be fun and very fulfilling to test.

  “David!” JJ saw him standing near the front desk and deserted Illarion to rush over to him. “Lucas? Is he…?

  “Lucas is fine.” David’s brown eyes heated with appreciation as they traveled over her form-fitting dance clothes. “Tonight,” he grinned, “for those in the know, is barbeque chicken night at the VFW. Before 5:30, seniors eat for half-price. Hard as it was to turn down, I wanted to see you dance. Ham picked him up.”

  “You didn’t tell Lucas I take dance lessons, did you?”

  “No, but I think Ham knows.” He looked behind her. “This is where you come?”

  Illarion had been standing behind her. He thrust out his hand, lips spread in an enthusiastic smile. “Welcome. You are friend of JJ? You hear about us through her?”

  David’s smile was all geniality and gave nothing away. “Will you mind if I watch you?”

  “JJ does not mind audience,” Illarion answered for her. “She likes. Soon she is ready to compete. A little experience, she takes first place.”

  Ballroom dance was now an Olympic-recognized sport, and competitions were a huge moneymaker for studios like Illarion’s. JJ enjoyed competition. Measuring herself against other dancers tempted her. Although money wasn’t a problem, JJ had so far resisted Illarion’s encouragements. As it was, she stole time for lessons. How she would carve out more, she didn’t know.

  Expecting polite interest in her hobby, she was surprised to see David’s brown eyes warm with approval and something that looked like pride. “First place, huh? She has winning instincts, all right.”

  “You dance?” Illarion asked.

  “Not much. Not ballroom.”

  “Oksanna!” Illarion called over one of the female teachers. “Have you time to give introductory lesson? First three lessons are free,” he told David, not giving him a chance to refuse. “Is good to watch beautiful woman dance. Anyone can do. Is better to dance with her.”

  Despite self-confident smiles reeking of geniality, the exchange between Illarion and David was bursting with subtext. No one could have missed the gauntlet thrown down by Illarion, or that it was picked up by David’s, “Lead on, Oksanna.”

  JJ was sorry the next dance Illarion led her into was the rumba. Despite proficiency in the steps, despite following every instruction, JJ always felt she wasn’t doing it well. Illarion was asking for something more.

  She intuited what the more was. Unlike the playfully flirty cha-cha or the intense, sharp battle of the sexes of the tango, the rumba was explicitly sexy, frank seduction—a celebration of attraction and desire. She wasn’t holding back. She just couldn’t make herself one with the movements.

  Illarion was as patient, as encouraging, as pleased with any effort as always. He led her to the mirrored wall to demonstrate how to extend her arm with her fingers spread wide. Again.

  Behind her in the mirror on the other side of the room, Oksanna had David rumba-ing in the face-to-face closed position—already. Nobody taught JJ that in her first lesson! Unbelievably, even as JJ watched, Oksanna showed him the open position and the same arm extension Illarion wanted her to perfect.

 
“Energy!” Illarion demanded.

  Attempting to emulate him, JJ made her fingers tenser. Stiffer. Behind her, David and Oksanna had returned to closed position. His hips swiveled smoothly. His footwork was accurate.

  Illarion followed her gaze. Nodded. To JJ, he said, “Energy!”

  The energy he was looking for—suddenly, she knew how to access it. JJ allowed a hot surge of hunger for David to fill her. She invited it. She chose it. She let herself consciously, deliberately experience her woman’s capacity for desire. Every muscle clenched. At the moment the sensual charge peaked, she flung out her hand. The energy shot out her fingertips.

  “Yes, JJ! That! That is rumba!”

  “Will you give me some more dance lessons?” David asked as he unlocked the door into the house and disarmed the security system. After leaving the dance studio, they had stopped at JJ’s favorite Thai restaurant for dinner.

  “Illarion was right to only let us partner each other about two minutes. I’m not ready to teach. It’s that sense of direction thing, I think. I can do my steps, but when I try to reverse them to show a partner, I get all confused. But you were amazing. You were doing moves I didn’t learn in a month.”

  In the kitchen, the misnamed mongrel rose from his hunter-green dog bed. He still moved gingerly, but his amber eyes were bright, his velvety ears at a jaunty, alert angle. It was amazing what twenty-four hours of being out of pain had done for him.

  David gently pulled the dog’s ears and then went to the sink to refill his water bowl. He looked at JJ over his shoulder and returned to the subject of dancing. “A SEAL is expected to pay attention. Something as simple as where to put his feet, he should do after being shown once. It might take repetitions to become skillful, but when he’s told by an instructor, ‘Do this, this way,’ that’s what he does—or gets his ass chewed.”

  “Once?”

  David set the water bowl down. “As our instructors are fond of saying, ‘There are no second-place wins in a gunfight.’”