by Anne Marsh
Stupid wasn’t an excuse.
Some time later, her phone buzzed, alerting her to an incoming text message. Still lost in the code scrolling across her screen, she grabbed it and thumbed through the messages. Apparently Levi had decided to revert to his teenage years. A picture of his butt in his wedding shorts flashed across her screen. She’d remember those shorts to her dying day, because the word GROOM had been bedazzled across his gorgeous backside. Apparently, he’d kept them as a souvenir.
Proving my point you’re an ass, she texted back.
Not that he cared about her opinion, but surely the man had to know that anything he posted on the internet could and would be held against him. He did have a mighty fine butt, though. And an unquenchable zeal for texting. Throughout the afternoon, he texted her new pics of himself in the shorts. After he’d covered all the angles, he’d started covering up one letter or the other, spelling out different words. ROOM. OO. GOO. While beating him at Scrabble looked likely, she had to hand it to Levi. He had no problem turning his sense of humor on himself.
When he popped the door open later that afternoon, the shorts weren’t in evidence. It was almost disappointing.
“I sort of thought the leave me alone, I’m working was implied,” she muttered. “I told you to go away.”
He grinned at her and rocked back on his feet. “I went. Now I’m back. I’m proving I can be trained.”
“Like a dog,” she said sourly, head still lost in her code.
He barked, and she smiled despite herself. Okay. So he was kind of cute. And annoying.
He came over and leaned his hip against the desk where she was working. If he was trying to distract her, it was working. Levi’s front view was as spectacular as his back view. Plus he’d once again lost his shirt somewhere, so her nose was inches from a very impressive six-pack. The way he nudged her laptop screen was less attractive.
“Don’t touch my stuff.” She saved her work, however, starting the remote backup process. Things tended to get blown up, broken, and otherwise borked around Levi. That might be helpful on a mission, but it was hell on hardware.
“You need to get up and move.” She opened her mouth and he pressed a finger against her lips. “The bathroom doesn’t count.”
Busted.
He pushed the laptop lid down a few inches, a devious gleam in his eyes. “Come for a run with me.”
She steadied the lid. “You screw up my backup, and...”
“And what? You’d have to catch me first, in which case you might as well get up now.”
She sighed ostentatiously. “You do realize that DEA agents don’t sit around all day, right? If you run, I’m trained to catch you.”
“Uh-huh.” Dark eyes flickered down her body and heat washed through her. “I’m bigger.”
“Doesn’t make you faster.” She shoved to her feet. Guess it was up to her to teach her SEAL a lesson. Sure, he’d outrace her, but she could definitely make him work for it, plus she wasn’t above cheating in a good cause. “I’m good.”
“I’m better,” he said. The man definitely didn’t have a confidence problem.
She changed into her running clothes—in the bathroom because Levi refused to budge from their room and she refused to give him a peep show—and then headed outside. She walked the first quarter mile, warming up her muscles and stretching out the kinks. She hated to admit it, but he was right. She’d have worked away the night, and she was already stiff.
Becoming a DEA agent had required passing the Physical Task Test. The PTT had been partly about acquiring the necessary muscle mass and partly about discovering the necessary mental toughness. Pull-ups, sit-ups, push-ups, running—that was the easy part. Practice made perfect, didn’t it?
Basic Agent Training at Quantico, Virginia, had meant more than banging out reps, however. She’d been screamed at, yelled at, and all-round abused. So whatever Levi dished out, she could take. She was used to being the girl on the team and winning that particular uphill battle. Because she only played to win.
When they reached the trail edging the beach, she didn’t bother giving him any warning, just took off running. He fell in beside her. The birds in the palms made more noise than a mariachi band. The air was heavy and humid, the sun turning the water pink and red. The last time she’d been here, she’d been focused on the mission and staying in character. There hadn’t been time to simply drink in the lush, tropical surroundings.
When the trail looped back, she looked over at Levi. “Race you.”
Then she took off like a shot. He snagged the back of her T-shirt, slowing her down. She elbowed him in the ribs. When the beach and their stuff loomed up in front of them, she put on a spurt of speed, sprinting for all she was worth. She could hear him pounding behind her, closing the distance too fast.
He took her down to the sand, tackling her and rolling to take the brunt of their fall. Too bad for him that she was ready for that trick. Flinging out her free hand, she tapped the pile of towels first.
“I win.” She wriggled, but he held her fast, her back glued to his chest and her butt firmly planted over his groin.
“You cheat.”
“Do not.”
He grunted and his arm tightened briefly, then he let her go. She rolled off him and flopped on the sand beside him.
“I’m competitive,” she admitted, poking him in the side with her elbow.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said, and nudged her back.
“I did competitive gymnastics for eight years.”
His head tilted. “Really? With the leotards and the sparkle stuff on your face?”
“I was good,” she informed him.
She had been, too. Had thrived under the pressure of only getting one chance. One chance to hit on the vault and win. No matter how many times she got it right in practice, the only vault that counted was in competition. No mistakes were allowed. You started with a perfect score, and the judges took away points for each mistake. She hadn’t been in it to win—she’d been in it not to lose.
“Why’d you stop?”
“I stopped winning. I jammed my knee one too many times and my boobs got too big and got in the way.” She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s just time to move on.”
“You don’t like losing,” he accused, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
She shrugged. “Who does? Winning was the only thing I was ever good at.”
“You know what this means?” He jerked a thumb at the horizon.
She squinted at it. Nothing particularly spectacular stuck out. No green flash, no invading army, no drug dealers skimming over the lagoon toward Fantasy Island. “That you suck at making conversation?”
“You’re just too sweet to me,” he drawled. “But that wasn’t the compliment I was angling for.”
“If you want compliments, you should find yourself a different wife.”
The muscles in her abdomen burned. Working out with Levi had pushed her. He had more muscle mass than she did, and ran a much faster mile. Keeping up with him had been a good challenge.
He rolled to his feet, and she looked up at him in surprise. “Are you quitting?”
“Is everything a competition to you?” He looked genuinely interested in her answer rather than judgmental.
“Pretty much.” She shrugged and knocked out one more sit-up. “I’m not good at losing.”
The truth was, she never lost. She’d worked hard for her body, and the further she got from her teenage years, the more work it required to maintain the levels necessary to pass the DEA physical. If a workout didn’t leave her drenched with sweat and shaking, it was a waste of time. Pushing harder and further had gotten her through the police academy as a girl and then through the DEA’s training program because her rule was to never, ever, take the easy way
out. If the mission called for running five miles, she sprinted ten. She gave it her all and therefore she finished first, fastest, best. If he didn’t like that, tough.
Somehow looking at his ripped, muscled body, however, she thought he understood. He pushed himself, too.
“Better learn fast,” he advised.
“That’s sweet of you.”
“One night’s up—you owe me a drink.” Oh, he was sneaky. He also looked pretty pleased with himself. Too bad that state wasn’t going to last.
“Twenty-four hours. Time’s not up yet.”
“Cheater.” He ran a thumb down her cheek. “You’re a filthy, rotten cheater, Mrs. Brandon and it’s time to pay up. You lose. I win.”
6
“I AM NOT a cheater.” Ashley gave him a repeat of the same incredulous look she’d shot him during the five-minute walk from the beach to the villa, and from the villa to the bar. Apparently making good on their dare was impossible in stinky workout gear. Whatever. She could pay up naked or wearing a toga for all he cared.
“The lady doth protest too much.” Levi had no idea if she was denying their marriage or reneging on their bet, but she’d followed him and that said something. He snorted. As if he’d let her renege on a dare. She knew better than that. Stupid dares were practically the currency of their SEAL team, and it wasn’t as though he’d twisted her arm to get her to agree.
“Don’t mangle Shakespeare,” she muttered, looking unhappy. Right. She hated losing. She never lost. Making her eat those words was going to be so much fun.
“I’ll start you off easy,” he said, because he was feeling magnanimous. “Sit.”
“Hah-hah.” She gave him a petulant look.
He nudged the seat next to him in a not-so-covert suggestion. Since the beach bar had swings instead of the usual stools, the wooden seat smacked gently into the general vicinity of her knees. Not that he could tell, given that she’d wrapped herself up in a gigantic muumuu masquerading as a dress. He squinted. Or maybe it was a leftover tent from his last covert op, although bright pink wasn’t the Afghans’ color of choice. Made it too easy for the snipers to find. He half expected her to flounce away, but instead she parked her butt on the seat. Holy shit. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a suggestion from him.
When they’d gone undercover on the island, she’d dyed her hair goth black and punked out. That Ashley had rocked a neon-pink string bikini. Despite the crazy clothes, she’d been drop-dead gorgeous. The long pink thing she was sporting now had to drag in the sand when she walked, but the excess fabric was heavy and that was an unexpected bonus because the weight tugged the front low in a pretty spectacular display of cleavage. Little twisted braids of ribbons crisscrossed her tanned shoulders. One good nudge and she’d pop free.
She propped herself up on the bar and looked significantly at the menu by his elbow. “If you insist.”
Hell, yeah. “You think I’d pass up this opportunity?”
She made a face. “No pictures. No sharing on social media. And no public spectacles.”
The public spectacles caveat hadn’t been part of their original bargain, but he could hardly blame her. Humiliating her also wasn’t part of his plan. Having some fun? Yeah. That he was definitely up for, but he also felt curious—and more than a little horny. How far would she go?
With a dramatic sigh, she nudged the menu toward him. “I want it on record that I’m a good sport. And that you cheat.”
If Ashley was going to perform a sex act of his choosing, he could afford to be gracious and let the cheating accusation pass. He ran a finger down the menu and pretended to read the list of drink names, even though he’d decided earlier in the day which cocktail he was choosing. He didn’t have to be mean about this, plus there were some things he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. How would a woman like Ashley portray Leather and Lace, for example? He’d be an idiot to hand her a weapon like that.
While he read, she swung gently back and forth. Somewhere between the villa and the bar, she’d lost her shoes and was barefoot, her toes curling into the sand. She had cute toes, too. She’d painted her nails blue with white polka dots, and she didn’t often do that girly stuff. He knew Ashley worried about fitting in with the guys. She was a woman in a man’s world, and that had to be a challenge. But she’d always kept up, always given as good as she got. She was a good team member and he was proud of her.
“You’d have made a good SEAL,” he told her, motioning for the bartender. The bar was nearly empty, with just one other couple on the far side. The pair were bent over a camera, flipping through their vacation shots. Hell, they practically had the place to themselves.
Perfect.
She snorted. “The Navy hasn’t encouraged women to do BUD/S.”
Which was stupid, in his opinion. “They should.” Female biology might not be up to some of the SEAL training exercises—he couldn’t imagine Ashley hoisting a two-hundred-pound log over her head for hours on end—but missions weren’t always about brawn. Brains counted too, and Ashley was strong in plenty of ways.
When the bartender came over, he didn’t hesitate. “I’ll have two Silk Panties.”
The bartender didn’t so much as blink. Good man. He just tossed out a “Very well, sir,” and beat a retreat.
Ashley laughed. “I can’t believe you just said that out loud.”
“Are they going to revoke my man card?” he asked in mock horror. He wasn’t the person who was going to be wearing the panties, after all.
“Silk panties are going to require a swim back to the mainland.” She flicked her straw at him. “Because I’m cotton all the way, baby.”
He opened his mouth, but she’d won this round. He was almost certain he made a sound halfway between a grunt and a moan. His brain had no problem mentally imagining her in a selection of Victoria’s Secret’s raciest, but the insta-boner in his pants told him that fantasizing was a mistake. Her gaze flicked to his lap, taking in the blatant evidence of his interest in her panties, and a wicked smile crossed her gorgeous face.
“You’re in danger of losing the dare,” she advised.
Hooyah, but she was right. “You lost tonight,” he pointed out. “And I picked a drink.”
“Silk Panties.” She nodded agreeably. “I’m fairly certain most of the island is now aware of your order. I’m also sure you’ve got something in mind, so feel free to spill.”
Jesus. “We’re gonna trade. My panties for yours.”
She stared at him like he was crazy. “In your dreams.”
Hell, yeah. Pulling a pair of silk panties out of his pocket, he slapped the scrap of fabric ostentatiously on top of the bar. Preparation was his middle name tonight. He’d made a strategic pit stop at the resort gift shop earlier in the day. Dixon’s new panties might be pink silk, but they were also of the thong variety and rocked some kind of sparkly pink-and-white zebra print never seen in the wild. They were awesome.
“Put those away,” she hissed. “We’re in public. See that couple over there? They’re an audience I’m not entertaining.”
He glanced obediently over at Vacation Picture Couple, who were still heads down over their camera. Was their possible attention her only objection? Because he’d anticipated more than one complaint.
“Nuh-uh.” He nudged the silk toward her. “You get to put them on. You’re fortunate. I could have ordered a Dirty Silk Panties.”
In case she didn’t get the idea—although she’d been dressing herself for at least two decades, so she had to know how the process worked—he picked up the panties and held them out in front of him. She eyed the expensive lingerie in his hand as if he’d offered her a snake. “God. Tell me they’re new, at least.”
Even he wasn’t that much of a pig. “I went shopping just for you, Dixon. You should say thank you.”
<
br /> She caught her breath sharply, grabbing the panties and dropping them into her lap as the bartender came back. Levi had to hand it to her. Her timing was impeccable, as always. When the bartender slid the drinks in front of them, however, he had to question his choice. Jesus. The thing was pink. Very, very pink and served in some skinny flute with berries floating on the surface.
“What’s in this?”
“Vodka, peach schnapps, and raspberry liqueur.” Which explained the red berries.
He grabbed the flute, waited until the bartender had moved back to the other end of the bar and saluted Ashley with the drink. “You first.”
She eyed the berries but didn’t make a move to grab her glass. “You’ve drunk your own piss in a foxhole. You think this is an improvement?”
He was powerless to stop the slow grin from spreading over his face. “At least it comes in a glass.”
Her head tilted, as though maybe the drink would look better from a different angle. “No one said I had to drink what you ordered.”
Nope. Just act it out.
Because there was no point in wasting a perfectly good drink, he took a cautious sip. It actually wasn’t bad.
She shook her head, looking amused. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Why?” Knowing Ashley, she had a dozen reasons, ranked from least to most important.
“I’d forgotten how much you enjoy sugar.”
Yeah. So sue him. He took another swig. A Silk Panties definitely improved on further acquaintance. “And you’re procrastinating. Put ’em on.”
* * *
ASHLEY KNEW BETTER than to make a bet with a SEAL. You played, you paid. The guys were better than the Mafia at collecting. Levi slouched on his swing, one big hand wrapped around the fragile cocktail glass as he waited for her to grab his panties and...do what? Strip? Launch into some kind of porn show revue for the entire bar? She wondered briefly why the frothy pink drink only made him look more masculine and then gave up. This was Levi. The man was sexy to the bone.