by Anne Marsh
“I know him.” She shoved the flamingo mug at him. “You want the last of the coffee?”
He gave her a disbelieving look. “I don’t want coffee, Deelie. I want the truth.”
“I’ve never lied to you.” She might have slept around—a lot—but she’d never told him anything but the truth. The shuttered look on his face, however, said good luck selling that story to Luke.
“You want a list of every guy I’ve slept with? Or just the ones who live in Strong and you might—you know—‘accidentally’ bump into?” She had no idea why she was taunting him.
“Jesus. No.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“You want to know why I did it? Because I’ve got a two-word explanation for you: free orgasms.” Shut up, her heart ordered her mouth. Don’t push him. Don’t make him mad.
He opened his mouth. Shut it. “I can’t win this conversation.”
“Is it a contest now?”
She used to think the sex meant something. Had almost believed Luke when he’d said she mattered.
She looked at the black coffee sloshing around the bottom of her mug. It had achieved sludge-like consistency in the five minutes since she’d poured it. Apparently coffee had a shelf life too. She emptied the mug into Luke’s hydrangeas, and nope, she wasn’t going to apologize for the pale brown stain on the big white balls. He was a big boy, and life got messy.
She wanted to throw the mug at his head, but that was stupid. She only had two mugs, and she couldn’t afford to break one. So she set the mug down on the arm of the chair and folded her arms over her chest.
“Look. I’m easy. Either that works for you, or it doesn’t.”
She’d always been the hot girl—and the easy girl. Luke hadn’t complained when they’d been going at it by the waterfall—either time. Nope. He’d enjoyed himself, he’d enjoyed her, and then he’d asked for more. He should be careful what he asked for.
“There’s nothing easy about you. You’re damn difficult.”
She opened her mouth—although she honestly had no idea what to say—when Luke’s pager went off. He looked down and swore.
“We’ve got a fire call. I have to go.”
Uh-huh. She’d heard that one before—when there was snow on the ground and a stiff wind chill factor. He was just like all the other guys, easy come and easy go.
“Pull the other one,” she snapped. “I can be out of here in ten minutes. Twenty tops.”
“I’m coming back,” he growled.
“It’s no big deal. Go.” See? She’d given him permission. He could leave guilt-free. She hated being needy. If she could just be strong for once, maybe then it would be enough.
He ran a hand over his head. Looked down at his page again, clearly torn. Yeah. She got that. “Deelie—”
“Go,” she said. “You don’t want to be late for work. If that’s what it is.”
And of course he went.
7
Ma’s was busy, but that was Friday night for you. All the locals came in because Ma’s was the only place to have a drink, plus everyone you knew was here already anyhow. That sucked the big one for dating which, once again, she knew firsthand. Meeting a guy here was like swimming in one big fishbowl where half the other fish were either hostile or piranhas. She kind of got it. She wasn’t the nicest person, and she definitely wasn’t the kind of woman you wanted your friends, brothers, or even your dentist to date. She was trouble.
Okay.
She was in trouble.
She hadn’t seen Luke all week. Possibly because the Black Mountain hotshot crew really had been called to help fight a fire two hundred miles away, but still. If he’d really wanted her to be part of his life, he’d have found a way to call her. Text. Send a carrier pigeon. Hell, since he was battling a wildfire, he could even use smoke signals. She’d screwed up badly when she’d accused him of lying to her.
She slashed a lime in half.
Mimi reached over and carefully pried the knife out of her fingers. “Honey, you want to take those frustrations out on a punching bag, not my produce. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She flashed the redhead a quick smile. Pissing off her boss would be stupid. At the end of the week, she’d have enough saved up for a down payment on a place. Or barring that, a tent.
“Uh-huh.” Mimi pursed her lips, clearly deciding whether or not to let it go. “Well, in case you’re lying to me, I should probably point out that your Mr. Nothing just strolled in our front door and is headed this way.”
Shoot. Deelie looked up, lasering in on the front door, and sure enough, there was Luke. He looked tired. He wore another one of his ratty military T-shirts and a pair of cargo pants. She couldn’t see his feet, but she’d bet he was wearing steel toes. The man tromped through life ready to kick ass. His gaze met hers, and he laid in a course for the bar.
Uh-oh.
“I think it’s time for my break,” she said hurriedly.
Mimi shook her head. “He’s only going to follow you out back—or back home. You might as well hear what he’s got to say.”
She might have been on board with that plan if she’d felt like acting like a grown-up. Unfortunately, she was fresh out of big girl panties.
“How do you know we’re living together?”
Mimi grinned at her. “Small town, remember? Your business is our business.”
Luke slid onto the barstool across from Deelie, and Mimi nudged her. “Give the man a chance, okay?”
Why did everyone think she’d already made up her mind about him?
Because you have, the little voice in her head announced gleefully. Because you want to dump him before he dumps you. Well, duh. She wasn’t into public humiliation which would be epic since apparently most, if not all, Strong knew about her current living arrangement. He needed to leave. Leave the bar, leave her life. Having practiced so many times in the past, she knew exactly how to handle a leaving man.
It was the stick-around guy she didn’t know how to handle.
“Well?” She slapped a cocktail napkin down on the bar in front of him.
“I’m waiting,” he said. True enough. He sure didn’t look like he was in any rush.
“For what? Nuclear apocalypse?”
“For my chance,” he said mildly. “Mimi just finished saying you have to give me one.”
She stared at him for a moment, not sure where to start. He was gorgeous, and she loved looking at him, which also meant her head shut down and other parts—her girl parts, her heart parts—took over the thinking for her. So she said the first thing that came to mind.
“I only do first dates. I told you that.”
“Uh-huh.” He sat there, so imperturbable that she was tempted to dump her drinks tray on him. See how cool he could act when he was wearing the ice cubes from the smoke jumping team’s Jack and Cokes. “I heard you just fine when you said that the other day.”
“So what are you doing here? I’m done with you.”
“You only like firsts.” He ran an assessing gaze over her. His eyes held something else. Something… warm? Whatever. She couldn’t do this again, couldn’t handle yet another guy walking out the door, taking her heart and her hope with her.
“Sign me up. The door’s over there.” She stared at him, wishing there was some way to skip forward, to move ahead to that time in the way-distant future when her heart wouldn’t skip a beat when Luke came through the door, when she wouldn’t want to throw herself into his arms and hold on tight. He smelled smoky, his hair wet from a recent shower, and he looked so damned perfect for her that she wanted to cry.
“There was a guy outside passing out these little cards.” He thumbed one over the bar to her. She took it automatically. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. “That’s the truth right there, in black and white.”
She flicked the card back to him. “Unless it’s the day you die. Then you’re just SOL.”
He grinned at her. “We’re going to have to work on your positive attitude.
”
Uh-huh. He’d have his work cut out for him, because she was over hopeful feelings.
“What do you want?” Oops. She pointed the knife at him to emphasize her point, and he eyed the blade. “Oh, don’t be such a baby. You’re a big, badass Navy SEAL. You must know at least a dozen ways to disarm me.”
“Yeah.” A big hand closed around hers. The briefest of pressure, and then her knife somehow appeared on his side of the bar. It was probably wrong that his ninja stealth move was the hottest thing she’d seen all week, but it had been a long, lonely week. “About what I want. I’d like today to be the first day of the rest of our lives.”
That was… hopeful. And positive.
“Don’t mess with me, Luke Dawson. Give me back my knife.”
He winked at her. “I’m holding it hostage. And you should know one thing.”
“Which is?” The way her heart hammered in her chest and her knees went weak, it had better be the best thing of all because the bottom line was she wanted this man for way more than a night or six and the only place he appeared to be walking was toward her.
He held out his hand. The one, she couldn’t help but notice, without the knife, which just proved he wasn’t stupid. “I love you, Deelie Jacks.”
No poetry. No hesitation. He just said it right there at the bar, with half Strong hanging on his every word. In thirty minutes, the rest of the town would know he’d professed undying devotion. How fucking sexy was it that he didn’t care who heard him? A little more public than she liked, but… this was Luke Dawson. He didn’t believe in holding back.
He looked at her, waiting for her to make up her mind. “So now you know what I want. You tell me what you want.”
“And then what?” Okay. She could do this. She put her hand in his. See? That felt right.
His fingers closed over hers. Squeezed gently. “Then we can make a plan.”
“You and your plans.” Yeah. She didn’t sound like she particularly minded. Nope. Her heart was singing a happy, happy song, and she had a feeling she was wearing the biggest, goofiest grin on her face.
“Planning’s not such a bad thing. For example…” The look on his face was pure mischief. “Tonight, when I’ve got you back in our bed, I’m going to lick my way down—”
Oh. My. God. She slapped her free hand over his mouth. “We’re in a public bar,” she hissed.
He pressed a kiss against her palm and lifted it away from his mouth. “Chicken. There’s just one little thing you’ve got to do for me first.”
“What’s that?” The man seemed to have more hands than an octopus, because he pulled her over the bar. Closer and closer, her brain shutting down as her free hand landed on his shoulder.
“Say that you love me too.”
You know what? She could do that.
“Nah. I love you best.”
And then, while she beamed at him because, holy wow, she’d got the words out and it felt good, he was somehow lifting her over the bar and into his arms.
“Deelie’s done for the night,” he said to Mimi, who was laughing her ass off watching the two of them. And then, as they left together, Deelie tugged Luke’s head down to hers and kissed the man she loved with all her heart.
Sneak Peek from Teasing Her SEAL!
Keep reading for a special sneak peek from TEASING HER SEAL, my October 2015 Harlequin Blaze.
Subject: Navy SEAL Gray Jackson
Objective: Stay on mission. And out of her bed.
Surgeon Laney Parker is on her honeymoon. Alone. Without her cheating fiancé, she's enjoying her nonrefundable "vacation" at Fantasy Island, an exotic resort filled with lush greenery, white beaches and staff who apparently grant every sexual request. Including an unbearably hot massage therapist whose touch turns Laney to molten lava…
Laney has no idea that Gray Jackson is actually an undercover Navy SEAL who's supposed to keep his hands off. Or that Gray wants to take total control. To give Laney just what she—hell, what they both need. Gray can grant her every erotic wish, just as long as he keeps his cover. And just as long as their sexy little tease doesn't go beyond the week…
On a good day, Laney saved at least five lives by noon. Her numbers dipped during the slower weeks, because not all days were a constant rush-rush of heart attacks, gunshot wounds and four-car freeway pileups. San Francisco traffic made the Autobahn look tame, and the off-ramps at Balboa Park alone had ambulances pulling into the bay on a semimonthly basis. Instead of scrubbing in, arms up as she hip-checked her way through the surgery door, however, now she was…naked.
Absolutely butt-naked and stretched out, waiting for a man to come and run his hands over her body.
Usually, naked was cause for celebration, except for the inescapable fact that she was all alone in a cabana with the same grade-A ocean views that had greeted her plane yesterday. Her surroundings included miles of powdery white sand, dotted with palm trees, and nothing but the calm blue Caribbean Sea begging for a close encounter with a snorkel. Fantasy Island—which was a ridiculously fantastic name—was undeniably much prettier and calmer than her usual Monday morning gig.
Harlan didn’t know what he was missing, the bastard. Oh, he was still a good-looking bastard, tall, broad shouldered and dark haired. He’d been tapped to play football for his college, but by then he’d already decided medical school lay in his future, and he’d passed on the team because he couldn’t risk the damage to his hands. If she hadn’t taken the Hippocratic Oath herself, she’d have been tempted to step on those talented fingers. Hard.
Imagining Harlan here on Fantasy Island was surprisingly difficult, although he’d been the one to pick out the place for their honeymoon. She was fairly certain she remembered what good sex was like. Or, at the very least, she remembered having sex. Decent sex with matching his-and-her orgasms at the end. Since both she and Harlan were trauma surgeons, they didn’t share too many off-the-clock hours, and she’d had to schedule time to make love with him, which was a sad commentary right there. This trip had been her chance to not be in control of every step of their sex life, and she’d been looking forward to it. While he, on the other hand, had been checking out nurses.
She wriggled on the massage bed and snuck another peek at her phone. Her ponytail slid over her shoulder and she forced herself not to grab it and play with the ends. But holy awkwardness. Lying here like a slab of meat hadn’t been in the spa brochure. Her cabana boy—aka masseuse—was late. The spa attendant had turned on some kind of New Age crap music, heavy on chimes but missing any noticeable beginning or end. The chiming went on ad nauseum. For added bonus points, the attendant had spritzed the air, and Laney’s towel cocoon smelled like some kind of floral scent that made her nose itch.
Waiting was not a good use of time. The sixty hours a week she spent—had spent—in a San Francisco trauma bay had been measured in increments of a minute or less. Of course, the same could be said about her sex life, which was her problem right there. She hadn’t been getting any, ergo she had sex on the brain.
Or maybe that was the resort’s fault. Her libido had Madeline’s explanations on the seaplane playing in a sexy loop through her head. Place an order from the cocktail menu—and pick a sexual fantasy. A Good-Night Kiss, Affair, Climax, Double Jack, Triplesex… Pick one. Point. All she had to do was ask for it.
She lifted her head up and fished her phone out from beneath her sheet. Six minutes late. She’d scheduled thirty minutes for this massage business—so she had twenty-four minutes left.
She liked to keep to her schedule.
Her masseuse, apparently, did not share her outlook on life.
“You’re cheating, sweetheart. No phones in the spa.”
Two big legs appeared in front of her, legs as big and rough as the voice issuing orders. Laney looked up and up and…sweet baby Jesus, the man had good genes. He was also more than a little rough around the edges. His face was all hard lines, his hair cut ruthlessly short with military precision. Dark stubb
le shadowed his jaw as he towered over her. He wore the loose white pants and form-fitting T-shirt that all the male resort employees sported, but somehow he managed to make the cotton look lethal, as if he was balanced on a razor edge, ready to pummel or go brute predator on the first threat that crossed his path.
This was her masseuse?
He tapped her phone. As if he had the power to make her do precisely as he commanded. It wasn’t hard to imagine him giving orders. Hit man. Maverick CEO. Rogue mercenary. She had no idea who he was, but her body leaped in anticipation when his thighs bumped against the side of the massage table.
Was he on the menu?
“This isn’t the spa.” Since her butt was stretched out beneath a cabana with a thatched roof, building rules absolutely did not apply. Neither did logic since, although Fantasy Island had twelve private villas, all positioned for maximum privacy and sunset views, what it did not have was an actual spa building. She’d been promised her masseuse would be happy to attend you wherever you wish, madame. “And you’re not in charge.”
“You’re on my massage table.” Amusement colored his deep voice, although his face remained impenetrable. Playing poker with this man would be dangerous. Hell, everything about him screamed dangerous. He certainly didn’t fit the spa’s brand of peace and mind-numbing serenity. He made the gangbangers, with their frequent-flyer cards to her ER, look like tame bunnies.
“That makes me the client.” And your boss. After all, she’d be picking up the tab for this little hands-on session.
“Uh-huh.” He plucked the phone out of her hand. “What could you possibly need to check?”
“The time. Give me back my phone.” She rolled over, sat up, extended an arm, and the sheet promptly dipped to nipple level. Damn it. The spa attendant must have been an Egyptian embalmer in a former life, because somehow the woman had gotten all the individual pieces of sheet strategically arranged to cover the embarrassing bits. Laney could do an emergency intubation on a flatlining patient, but the sheet defied her. She yanked it up and used her armpit as an anchor. Sexy. Not.