Wicked Secrets
Anne Marsh
A brazen bargain!Former military pilot Mia Brandt is on a four-day cruise that can only be described as bachelorette hell. Giggling girls, rhinestone-studded bikini bottoms (ugh), slushy margaritas…and Mia missing the cruise ship's departure at the last port. Now she's stranded on the same island as Tag Johnson–a Navy rescue swimmer who's all ripped abs and sexy hotness…and Mia's unforgettable one-nighter from four years ago!Tag definitely remembers Mia. Remembers her touch, the searing heat of their chemistry…and how she pulled rank on him in bed. The sexual attraction between them is as fierce as it ever was. But when Tag blurts out that they're engaged–a tiny little lie–their naughty, no-strings secret arrangement is out! And now an even bigger secret has taken its place…
A brazen bargain!
Former military pilot Mia Brandt is on a four-day cruise that can only be described as bachelorette hell. Giggling girls, rhinestone-studded bikini bottoms (ugh), slushy margaritas...and Mia missing the cruise ship’s departure at the last port. Now she’s stranded on the same island as Tag Johnson—a Navy rescue swimmer who’s all ripped abs and sexy hotness...and Mia’s unforgettable one-nighter from four years ago!
Tag definitely remembers Mia. Remembers her touch, the searing heat of their chemistry...and how she pulled rank on him in bed. The sexual attraction between them is as fierce as it ever was. But when Tag blurts out that they’re engaged—a tiny little lie—their naughty, no-strings secret arrangement is out! And now an even bigger secret has taken its place...
Tag was no longer interested in playing nice.
He was close enough to feel the heat coming off Mia’s body, to smell his soap on her skin. She moved toward him in a sweet collision. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her thighs pressed against his. All those layers of clothes couldn’t keep him from remembering what she’d felt like naked in his arms.
And wanting a repeat.
Keeping his hands off her was impossible. So he slid a hand around the back of her neck, tracing the soft skin, loving how the small tendrils of hair clung to his fingers as he drew her closer. She made a small, throaty sound, tipping her head back against the door, and he was lost.
He covered her mouth with his and kissed her. He felt the strangest sense of coming home.
He wanted her, every stubborn, prickly and sensuous inch of her.
Never mind they were both leaving and he probably had no business touching her. Instead of stopping, though, he deepened their kiss.
Her lips parted beneath his, but there wasn’t an ounce of submission in her. Trap. She lured him in in the best kind of sensual ambush, making a sound that was part delight, part moan. He threaded his fingers through her free hand, pinning it above her head. Her fingers closed around his in response, and he couldn’t have broken free if he wanted to. Instead, he drank in the little sounds she made as her tongue tangled with his and they both fought to control the kiss and the heat. Kissing and kissing.
Because admitting defeat wasn’t something either of them did...
Dear Reader (#ulink_9f3983c2-0db1-5a1b-91fa-b58fb492029c),
I love military heroes. The men and women who serve step up and put it all on the line in situations I can’t begin to imagine. Tag Johnson, the hero of Wicked Secrets, is a US Navy rescue swimmer. He and his teammates are the first in the water when a plane goes down in the ocean, a ship founders or a tsunami hits. The heroine of Wicked Secrets is also a military veteran. Mia Brandt served in the US Army and, now that she’s come home, she wants to feel normal. Our female military veterans face an additional set of challenges when they leave active duty. From assumptions made in doctors’ waiting rooms and by Veterans Affairs (that they are there as wives, mothers and girlfriends rather than as veterans themselves) to balancing motherhood and marriage with overseas deployments, they face a unique set of challenges. I loved having the chance to explore what happens when a not-quite-perfect female soldier comes home from active duty and two people wounded in different ways fall unexpectedly in love.
I hope you enjoy Wicked Secrets—and that you’ll check out Tag’s fellow rescue swimmers in Wicked Sexy and Wicked Nights. I love hearing from readers. You can find me at facebook.com/annemarshauthor (http://www.facebook.com/annemarshauthor) or drop by my website, anne-marsh.com (http://www.anne-marsh.com).
All my best,
Anne
New York Times Bestselling Author
Wicked Secrets
Anne Marsh
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ANNE MARSH writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in Northern California with her family and six cats.
This book is for that handful of readers who go above and beyond: Rhea, Tracie, Gwen, Natalie, Brenda, Margreet, Nicola and all the other wonderful members of my street team. Your support and encouragement mean the world to me!
Contents
Cover (#uf4a5432b-c381-50c6-bb20-a0dfd11e2294)
Back Cover Text (#ue50ee9cc-ea2a-5ea9-99a5-6468893e1644)
Introduction (#u8198a659-3c2f-5ab3-8338-b5d2d924f7cc)
Dear Reader (#u33103018-384d-513a-83b5-826ee8c65861)
Title Page (#ucf6e5481-9b69-5dcb-aada-659fea817b72)
About the Author (#u2aa7901b-3d91-5269-b45d-e12090ba541f)
Dedication (#ud49f2448-a79e-5a0e-a716-a8350b9a0f57)
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1 (#ulink_63375289-6360-5377-b97a-e2c4587cb641)
DISCOVERY ISLAND CAME with its own resident Adonis. That particular plus had definitely not been in the travel brochures Laurel, Mia Brandt’s cousin and the bride-to-be, had waved enthusiastically when proposing a four day bachelorette cruise from San Francisco to Cabo San Lucas. The woman was a travel agent; she should have known the man candy would be even more of a draw than discounted cabins.
Fifty yards away from Mia’s perch in the beachside bar, the hottie masterfully coaxed a boat motor to life while she stared. He might have been working in the shallow water with his back to Mia’s group, but the sheer size and power of him demanded a second look, as did the effortless way he dominated his surroundings. In a firefight, she would have taken him out first, because everything about him screamed trouble.
As soon as the hostess had shown Mia to her seat, she’d spotted him at two o’clock. Cataloging her surroundings was second nature, the end result of two tours of duty in Afghanistan. After her time in the sandbox, she’d marked her exits and searched for anything out of the ordinary. Not that she recognized ordinary anymore, but she’d made it her personal goal to rediscover that quality, and she’d set herself a deadline of Christmas. With only three months remaining to accomplish her particular mission, scoping out potential dates—rather than potential hostiles—over bad margaritas had seemed an excellent step in the right direction. The normal direction.
This guy was worth a second look for many reasons, although the only threat he posed right now was to her libido. An ancient gray T-shirt stretched tightly over his shoulders as he wielded his wrench, clearly still dissatisfied with the boat’s performance despite the motor’s obedient purr. He’d rolled up his faded jeans, the worn denim cupping his butt in the best possible way as he bent over, fiddling with some new mechanical bit. His dark hair was buzzed short with military precision, and his forearms were a rich, sun-browned color. When he pulled a screwdriver out of the toolbox beside him, Mia’s group of gals heaved a collective sigh.
Hooyah. Definitely spectacular.
“You think he’s single?” One of the bridesmaids leaned into Mia, her attention firmly fixed on the hottie working the engine. Laurel had assembled a bridal party from all walks of life. In addition to Mia, she’d invited two girlfriends from college, her husband-to-be’s baby sister, a gal from her office and a woman she’d met on a cruise to Jamaica. Two Jenns, an Olivia, a Lily and a Chloe. Mia’s other mission was keeping the names straight.
The guy’s dating status, however, wasn’t the actual issue. She shifted back—she still didn’t like casual touching—and plucked the veil off her head. Her cousin had brought faux bridal veils for everyone, but there was only so far Mia would go for family. Being a former aviation pilot and officer in the US Army and only six months back from her final tour, pink tulle far exceeded that distance. Far. “That’s not the right question.”
The bridesmaid—Mia was almost certain she was one of the Jenns—absently inhaled her margarita, her gaze never wavering from the man in the boat. “No?”
A guy like him clearly didn’t know the meaning of the word no. His T-shirt rode up as he reached over the engine block, revealing a sun-darkened expanse of golden brown skin and the navy blue edge of his boxers. The straight line of his spine just begged to be traced by her fingers. Or her mouth. Her tongue...
At ease, soldier.
She’d seen gorgeous men before. Slept with them, too. Just because sailor boy was the sexiest sight she’d laid eyes on in weeks didn’t give her hormones license to rampage unchecked. Her ship sailed in hours, and she wasn’t looking for quick fun. She also didn’t need to leave behind yet another guy who would decide he was done waiting without telling her.
Even now, she could hear her ex’s voice as he explained how her last deployment was his license to cheat on her because, honestly, did she expect him to wait forever? Eighteen months hadn’t qualified as forever in Mia’s book, but then honesty apparently hadn’t been part of her ex’s vocabulary, either. She wouldn’t make that mistake again, and the sailor in the boat had mistake written all over his very sexy self.
Might-be-Jenn slurped, drawing Mia’s attention back to the problem at hand. “The question is—is he single right now?”
The man braced his legs as he twisted something on the engine block, and one of the other bridesmaids started fanning herself with a stack of bar napkins. Right on cue, a bikini-clad tourist hopped up onto the edge of the boat. The guy’s fetching new visitor leaned in and said something to him.
“Scooped.” Mia’s neighbor polished off the remainder of her margarita. She didn’t sound particularly forlorn. “I need another round.”
It was hard to imagine needing more tequila and salt, but Mia signaled for the waiter anyhow. Her role on this cruise appeared to be that of designated party planner, probably because she wasn’t any good at having fun herself, or so she suspected. Checking the waiter out visually for suspicious bulges and concealed weapons when he came over to take their order for refills was a case in point.
“Is he taken?” Bridesmaid number two—so much for keeping her vow to learn their names before the cruise ship reached international waters tomorrow—scooted closer and looked hopefully toward the water’s edge.
“We could send him a drink.”
“Two.”
“Or bring the drinks ourselves.”
“A long, slow screw against the wall.” Mia zoned out during the animated discussion of drinks that followed, which was probably why she missed the right turn the conversation took somewhere between wall and Mia. Her name. Five heads swiveled her way. Hell. She must not have blacked out or had a flashback, because no one looked worried.
“What?” she asked Laurel, who was bouncing up and down in her seat. If Mia closed her eyes, she could imagine they were kids again. Laurel, who had always hated her name, had been an only child three years younger than Mia and they’d quickly become inseparable. Since her cousin lived less than a half mile away from Mia’s family, there had been plenty of zipping back and forth on their bikes.
Laurel had emailed daily when Mia was deployed, sharing all the small-town news and celebrity gossip. She’d also sent care packages, which had been a mixed blessing, albeit always good for a laugh. Laurel’s definition of essentials didn’t match Mia’s, but they’d agreed on chocolate and Cheetos. The random gag gifts in the box had been another matter, but explained why Mia’s unit had the best supply of whoopee cushions in the sandbox...and why Mia was now sporting a hot pink bikini bottom with rhinestones. And a tiara.
Laurel had a devilish sense of humor and a contagious laugh. And since making Laurel happy made Mia happy, a little public humiliation in the wardrobe department was a small price to pay.
Laurel elbowed her. “He’s wearing dog tags.”
“And?”
“And so he’s military, right? Maybe you know him.”
Of course, because the number of soldiers serving Uncle Sam was so small that they were all on a first name basis. In the last six months she’d served in Afghanistan, she hadn’t met every serviceman stationed at her base. Many of them, certainly, but not all of them. So the odds of her knowing the guy working on the boat were miniscule. Mia sighed. Sure, she could march over there and introduce herself, but she doubted he’d be interested in a glassful of vodka and gin. Sex, on the other hand, was a definite maybe if he was anything like the soldiers with whom she’d served.
Stall.
“I doubt we’ve crossed paths,” she said, fishing an ice cube out of her glass. If she mainlined enough sweet tea, she might not fall asleep tonight, and avoiding the nightmares ranked higher on her list of things to be desired than hot men working on boats. “Afghanistan wasn’t that small.”
“Go over and ask him to join us,” Laurel urged.
“Why me?”
Her cousin’s impish smile reminded Mia she wasn’t the only person here used to giving orders.
“I’m the bride,” Laurel reminded her. As if Mia could possibly forget, given the group’s collective outfits. “I’m off-limits. Taken.” Another round of giggles ensued. “Someone available should go.”
It was true. Mia did want to be available. It was part of her whole act normal, feel normal plan. Laurel, on the other hand, was unabashedly girly. She loved glitter and pink—and her husband-to-be, Jack. Laurel was the kind of happy that made others smile. She didn’t forget a promise, and she’d waited almost a year for her wedding date to make sure that Mia would be home. In turn, Mia would walk through fire for her baby cousin—and up the aisle in the satin monstrosity Laurel had chosen for the bridesmaids.
All of which made walking across the beach to the hottie on the boat a no-brainer.
Since she wasn’t drinking—thank you, accidentally detonated concussion grenade—she’d nominated herself to be in charge of organizing the day’s festivities—kind of like a designated tour guide instead of a designated driver. They’d hit the water for some snorkeling and devoured a lunch that had somehow morphed into the current cocktails. Next up was the zip line and ATV tour, followed by a sunset beach walk. While she couldn’t guarantee the bridal party’s continued good behavior, she could guarantee they slept like babies tonight. Apparently, she could also add procurer of hot men to her mental résumé.
With that thought, she stood up and pointed herself in the direction of sailor boy. If her girls wanted his company, they’d get it. Seeing them happy was a good thing. This was precisely what she’d fought for in Afghanistan, this beautiful, silly happiness. Laurel glowed whenever her fiancé’s name came up. They could laugh a little too loudly, drink a little too much, and have far too much fun, unlike the very few Afghani women Mia had met during her tours.
The sun beating down on the beach certainly upped the temperature to Afghanistan-like levels. Moving out without her flip-flops had been a mistake because the sand was scorching hot. As soon as Mia got close, speeding up her incoming to an undignified trot as the soles of her feet cooked, the visiting bikini babe slid off the edge of the boat, landing in the water with a little splash. Sailor boy didn’t look up. Not because he didn’t notice the other woman’s departure—something about the way he held himself warned her he was aware of everyone and everything around him—but because polite clearly wasn’t part of his daily repertoire.
Fine. She wasn’t all that civilized herself.
The blonde made a face, her ponytail bobbing as she started hoofing it along the beach. “Good luck with that one,” she muttered as she passed Mia.
Oookay. Maybe this was mission impossible. Still, she’d never failed when she’d been out in the field, and all her gals wanted was intel. She padded into the water, grateful for the cool soaking into her burning soles. The little things mattered so much more now.
“I’m not interested.” Sailor boy didn’t look up from the motor when she approached, a look of fierce concentration creasing his forehead. Having worked on more than one Apache helicopter during her two tours of duty, she knew the repair work wasn’t rocket science.
She also knew the mechanic and...holy hotness.
Mentally, she ran through every curse word she’d learned. Tag Johnson hadn’t changed much in five years. He’d acquired a few more fine lines around the corners of his eyes, possibly from laughing. Or from squinting into the sun since rescue swimmers spent plenty of time out at sea. The white scar on his forearm was as new as the lines, but otherwise he was just as gorgeous and every bit as annoying as he’d been the night she’d picked him up at the Star Bar in San Diego. He was also still out of her league, a military bad boy who was strong, silent, deadly...and always headed out the door.
For a brief second, she considered retreating. Unfortunately, the bridal party was watching her intently, clearly hoping she was about to score on their behalf. Disappointing them would be a shame.
“Funny,” she drawled. “You could have fooled me.”
Tag’s head turned slowly toward her. Mia had hoped for drama. Possibly even his butt planting in the ocean from the surprise of her reappearance. No such luck.
“Sergeant Dominatrix,” he drawled back.
* * *
“DO YOU EVEN remember my name?” Mia Brandt smiled at him, baring her teeth. If looks could kill, he’d be a dead man twice over.
Sergeant Dominatrix. Dredging up her old nickname hadn’t been nice, but she’d startled him, and the words had slipped out. Okay, metaphorically speaking, she’d knocked him on his ass, because if he’d been making a list of the people he least expected to meet on Discovery Island, she would have topped said list. The last time he’d seen her had been when she’d marched out the door of his hotel room with a mouthy At ease, soldier. He’d been naked. She, on the other hand, had been sporting full dress uniform.
“I remember.” His people-naming skills had never been good, but Mia was unforgettable.
“Prove it.” She moved silently through the shallow water toward his boat. Those three feet felt like eternity.
“You don’t prefer Sergeant Dominatrix to Mia?” he asked innocently.
She treated him to a repeat of the death glare, which he deserved, because it was his fault she was saddled with the nickname, even if she didn’t know it. He had no intention of confessing the truth, either. He wasn’t stupid.
“Would you?” she asked.
Absolutely not. He’d never been good at taking orders. Mia, on the other hand, excelled at giving them. Their relationship had been doomed from the start. Sweet Jesus, but she hadn’t needed him for anything but his guy parts. At the three-drink mark of his Star Bar visit, that had been need enough for him.
“Touché. So...are you visiting?” See? He could be polite.
She pointed to a group of women behind her, the same group that had been mainlining cocktails and whooping it up while he worked. Funny. He wouldn’t have pegged her for a drinker. Mia liked being in charge far too much to give it up.
Of course, weddings were crazy-making. He had first-hand proof of that. His business partner and best friend was tying the knot in a few months, and his fiancée had pointed out that people made allowances for weddings all the time. At the time, she’d been trying to persuade him to host some kind of stag party. This bridal party wore veils and bikinis, an unusual beach getup meriting a second glance. Or six.
Tag had never considered himself a marrying man, but multiple pink-and-white swimsuit bottoms with bridesmaid tattooed on the butt in rhinestones had him rethinking his position. Fast. The bride wore white, of course, and she was off-limits. The beach bar was the kind of place where the stools were chunks of wood and the glasses sported paper umbrellas and cherries. The waiters encouraged the customers to wiggle their toes in the sand and served the kind of drinks that made his stomach curdle. Mia’s ladies must have come in from the cruise ship currently moored in Discovery Island’s harbor, as half of them were toting Fiesta Cruise bags stuffed to the gills with beach towels and girly stuff.
Since the dive shop had landed a contract with the cruise ship earlier this summer, Tag knew the ship’s schedule by heart. The boat would have put into port overnight, and the cruisers would have spilled down the gangway and onto the island at eight in the morning. By four o’clock, the boat would be hightailing it out of the bay, Mexico-bound. And, apparently, taking Mia along for the ride.
“Are you a matched set?” He inspected her bottom half. She’d yanked on a practical black cotton T-shirt with the US Army insignia on the upper right shoulder, but the parts of her that weren’t covered up were toned and tanned. She wore her brown hair in a casual braid that fell over her shoulder as she leaned toward him. The braid was a little looser than military regulations demanded, so maybe she was taking the whole civilian thing seriously. The elegant arch of her eyebrows as she cast mental scorn in his general direction was unchanged, however, as was the alert way she balanced on the balls of her feet as if she was just waiting for a reason to kick his ass.
He had absolutely no business remembering what she looked like naked. Or just how good their one night together had been. To divert his thoughts, he peered over the side of the boat and down her body. It was his lucky day after all, because she was wearing...wait for it...a pink bikini bottom. He’d bet every dollar he had that she was bridesmaid number six.
Life was good.
“Turn around,” he said, drawing the pivot gesture in the empty air between them with his finger. He’d never figured Mia for a rhinestone kind of woman.
Her glare promised retribution, although he found her embarrassment cute. “It’s a bachelorette party. My cousin’s tying the knot, and there’s a dress code. Come over and have a drink with us.”
And there was the Mia he remembered: all tell and no ask. A waiter delivered another round of margaritas while she waited for his response. He could practically smell the salt from the green-and-yellow slush from where he stood working on the boat’s motor. The dive boat, on the other hand, smelled like sun-heated metal and motor oil, much pleasanter scents to his way of thinking. But unfortunately, the rhythmic wash of water hitting the boat’s sides couldn’t drown out the good-natured teasing and laughter.
“I don’t believe you’re active duty, Master Sergeant.” He didn’t know Mia’s military status, but pink bikinis were no part of the military dress code he knew.
“I’m not.” There was a flash of something in her eyes that he instinctively recognized. He gave her another quick once-over, this time inventorying for scars and coming up empty. Some soldiers wore their scars on the outside; others kept them on the inside. Mia was apparently an inward kind of person. Something he had in common with her.
“Injured?”
“I’m good. Come with me.” She bit the words out impatiently, as if daring him to protest. That was fine with him. He wasn’t her father, her brother or her nurse. He also wasn’t a lower-ranking officer anymore due to his last promotion, which meant he absolutely didn’t take orders from her. He felt the slow smile stretching his face. Oh, yeah. Master Sergeant Mia didn’t get to yank his chain any longer. She was a civvie, a civilian. He, on the other hand, was still an officer and would be back with his unit in six weeks.
“Pass.” He set the wrench back in the toolbox. He was about done here.
“One beer.” She propped her hands on her hips and did her best to stare him down. It was a damned good effort, too, although the peekaboo bikini strap beneath her T-shirt was a first-class distraction. Her gaze never stopped moving, quartering the ocean, the boat, the beach. He’d bet she didn’t miss a thing because Cal Brennan, one of the two Navy rescue swimmers he co-owned Deep Dive with, was like that, too, constantly tracking his surroundings and watching for incoming. Somehow, the switch hadn’t got thrown in Tag’s head. He’d left the battles on the battlefield. He was okay.
He looked over Mia’s shoulder. Five pairs of eyes drilled into him from the beach bar. A lovely blonde raised her margarita to him in a silent toast, and he grinned. Pretty women on a pretty day. He should have been in heaven having things go his way like this. It was all so fun. So easy. On the other hand, there was nothing easy about Mia Brandt.
You had your shot and you screwed it up...
He shipped out in six weeks. She set sail in six hours. Even if he’d been a long-term kind of man, neither time line allowed for a relationship. And that assumed she even wanted him for more than a centerpiece at the bachelorette party that was in full swing up there at the beach bar.
When he didn’t answer her right away, she dug in. “What’s not to like about a free beer?”
He smiled. “Every drink has strings attached. I learned my lesson at the Star Bar.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t hear you complaining that night. In fact, you did plenty of hollering of the good kind.”
Her slow smile heated his blood. He’d always loved a challenge, making him real glad he had the side of the boat between them. Otherwise, there would have been no way she missed the erection he sported. Squatting down by the side of the boat, he folded his arms on the side. The move put him on eye level with her. He’d forgotten how tiny she was.
“You made plenty of noise yourself.”
“Maybe I did. A girl has to look after herself in bed.” She slapped her hands on to the edge of the boat—and on top of his. She wore no rings, but there was a pale circle on her ring finger.
Ouch. He went on the offensive. “You were bossy.”
She’d been bold. Confident. And more than a little take-charge in bed. So, okay, he hadn’t minded at the time. He’d been completely on board with her plan of a night of hot, casual sex. And, if she’d liked to give orders, he’d also been willing to indulge her. Unfortunately, he’d been busted sneaking back into his apartment. He’d been tired. He hadn’t been thinking. The litany of excuses didn’t matter, however, because he’d let slip the name of the woman he’d slept with, and his night with her had solidified her reputation for being a ball-breaker.
Sergeant Dominatrix. Yeah. Not a kind name. A guy might live that down—after about four hundred tours of duty—but Mia had been a female officer working with male officers who didn’t always treat women like equals, even if the field manual said they should. Good reasons, bad reasons—he figured she probably hadn’t cared.
Her eyes narrowed, proving she hadn’t changed since then. “You needed directions.”
She was close enough to kiss. She had brown eyes, paired with the longest, most feminine eyelashes he’d ever seen. Retreat. His lips almost brushed hers, as his fingers automatically tightened around hers. He might be pulling her into the boat—or she might be pulling him overboard. Damned if he knew.
“Directions you were happy to issue. If you didn’t like the results, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
Her knowing smile pushed all his buttons. “I was the senior officer.”
Like. Hell. “It’s a good thing we were a one-night thing. Because you don’t outrank me anymore, sweetheart.”
2 (#ulink_85feeb95-30a8-5330-ab64-d3931ad24e6f)
TAG JOHNSON WAS still a pain in her ass. He was also drop-dead gorgeous. She wasn’t active duty anymore. He was. The possibility he might—just possibly—outrank her galled her. She was almost certain he was teasing her.
Almost.
Big and built, he filled out a T-shirt in ways that had her libido sitting up and taking notice. Maybe it was the hint of mischief crinkling the corners of his eyes, or maybe it had something to do with his hands...yeah, his hands definitely got her going. The words tough and capable came to mind watching him work a wrench. A dive watch flashed on his wrist as he gave some unidentifiable piece of boat motor one last, hard twist and then transferred his gaze to her, thumbing his sunglasses up.
She grinned. At least she had his attention now. Taking backseat to a boat engine wasn’t acceptable. She’d always had a competitive streak, and her drive to be the best had helped propel her to success in the Army. Part of it was a pilot thing—who could fly farthest, fastest, lowest. Get a bunch of aviators together, and the adjective didn’t matter. She’d out-flown, out-landed, and out-shot every one of them.
Her competitive drive had been the reason why she’d met Tag in the first place. Four years ago, she’d been back stateside for a few weeks of R & R following a challenging deployment. After several weeks of parking her butt in San Diego, she’d been looking at another government-sponsored trip back to the sandbox. She’d been living dangerously for years, so sending a round of drinks over to Tag’s table had seemed tame in comparison. When the waitress had brought the Mia-sponsored bonus round to his table, he’d raised his beer, laughing. See? Everyone liked a free drink. Nonetheless, she’d been completely unprepared for the bolt of pure heat shooting through her and making her think, for the first time, about indulging in the kind of one-night quickie her team boasted about. Logically, most of her guys’ chatter about hookups and amazing blow-your-mind sex had to be just that. Chatter. Hot air. Pure fiction. Except she’d looked at Tag, and he’d stared back at her, his hazel eyes promising just one thing.
Hot.
Dirty.
Sex.
He’d made good on all those unspoken promises. They’d had just seven hours because he’d had orders to deploy in the morning. Approximately four hundred and eighteen minutes of being skin to skin with him because it had taken her two whole minutes to shuck her uniform and boots. He’d been inside her ten minutes after they’d both gotten naked, and she hadn’t minded. She had, in fact, ordered him to hurry the hell up and get inside me now.
Now she stared at him as if she’d lost her ever-loving mind. Darn it. Her unfathomable attraction to him was definitely best kept on the down low.
“Earth to Mia.” His husky drawl stirred more memories. He’d called her by her first name at the Star Bar, as well. She hadn’t protested, despite them both knowing she outranked him. The evidence had been right there on her uniform shirt. But in her hotel room, she’d been Mia and he’d been Tag. Two people giving in to chemistry and a need for closeness before duty called and they went their separate ways.
Tag’s boat rocked up and down with each small wave lapping at the beach. A familiar curl of nausea started in the pit of her stomach, so she transferred her gaze from the boat to the horizon. Throwing up on his boat would be way too humiliating.
“Are you pulling rank on me?” He was out of uniform, so she couldn’t be certain he truly outranked her. Still, he’d struck her as a straight shooter, and she didn’t think he’d bullshit her.
“I made Senior Petty Officer Naval Air Crewman last year.”
He’d done well, but she wasn’t surprised. He’d had drive. She’d certainly never had a better orgasm.
He kept on talking, or, at least, his mouth went right on moving, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his eyes assessed her bikini getup, for which she definitely had to kill her cousin now. Whatever words came out, however, were lost on her as she swallowed the nausea. Her last deployment had ended with a bang, literally. While the outward damage from the concussion grenade had healed, she’d been left with an excruciating susceptibility to motion sickness. It was a good thing she’d abandoned her desire for a career as a pirouetting ballerina at the age of four.
He paused and looked at her. “You cashed out?”
His question, she decided, wasn’t judgmental—more curious, which was a nice change. Justifying her decision to leave military service got old, as did correcting other people’s misconceptions about why she’d joined in the first place. Sure the GI bill was a nice bonus, but she’d wanted to serve. Her father had. Her three brothers had. And she had. She got tired of people assuming she was parked in the waiting room of the VA because she was a wife or daughter.
“I’m done,” she admitted.
He nodded, then turned and tossed something toward his toolbox. Instinctively, when metal hit metal with a loud bang, she dropped to a crouch. Incoming. Rapidly, she assessed her options for cover, mentally narrowing down the direction of the shot fired. The world telescoped to a strip of sand and the whoosh of water in her ears as she tried to pinpoint the source of the danger. The beach was still quiet and peaceful, except for her ladies sending up a rousing cheer as someone proposed a toast.
A curse floated overhead, and then Tag dropped over the side.
“Sorry.” She hated the word, hated all of its implications. Her revulsion, though, didn’t stop big hands from flexing, wrapping around her arm and tugging her carefully upright. She sorted through excuses halfheartedly. Maybe she’d been checking out the sand or—hey—a fish. A quick, sideways peek at Tag’s face was plenty of warning. Whatever story she cooked up, he wouldn’t buy it. Because he understood, damn him.
* * *
THE LOOK ON Mia’s face was one Tag had seen on many others he’d served with. She was so busy proving she was independent and in charge that he hadn’t even thought about the possibility she’d brought home some mental baggage from her tours of duty. Or that the bang of his wrench hitting the toolbox would be enough to send her back to another place and time. Another battlefield. He didn’t know how to fix the situation or what she needed, but he couldn’t disregard her distress, either.
“Hey.” He crouched next to her, ignoring the water seeping through his jeans. He’d dry. Her eyes quartered the beach as if she fully expected a United States Marine Corps AAV to emerge from the surf and open fire. He was thankful every day Discovery Island wasn’t that kind of place, but right now Mia’s head didn’t understand that truth.
“You’re home,” he murmured, not sure what words would bring her back. Carefully, he curled his fingers around her shoulder, feeling warm skin through the black cotton. It was sexy as hell. “There’s no danger here.”
Long lashes swept down, and she released her breath with a shudder. Had he noticed how long those lashes were when he’d had her underneath him? Or on top of him? Hell. There weren’t too many positions they hadn’t tried out during their one night. He’d thought she was simply a pleasant memory, but apparently he’d been wrong.
She grimaced, her eyes snapping open. She was back from whatever mental hell she’d been visiting. He dropped his hands to grip her elbows before she butt-planted in the surf. Unless she’d had a personality transplant, his Mia would want to leave with her dignity intact.
“Memories,” she explained, and they both mentally added bad to her one-word explanation. Yeah. For one deceptive moment, she’d looked soft and vulnerable. But now, she squatted there beside his boat, ready to defend him and everyone else on the beach from invisible bad guys and...he respected the hell out of her commitment to getting the job done.
“Come on.” He stood up, bringing her with him.
She’d angled herself between him and the beach like a good officer. He didn’t need her to protect and defend him, but he appreciated the offer. And other things. He definitely appreciated Mia’s body. Her butt brushed his front. Any closer and she’d be fully aware of his interest. Although she only came up to his shoulder, she looked competent and in charge, her hands on her hips as she surveyed her surroundings. Wispy strands escaped from her braid as if she’d just rolled out of bed, softening her edges. And Mia had a great many edges.
“Let me buy you a drink,” she said. He didn’t know whether she wanted to deflect any more questions or make sure they were even.
But did her motives matter? He could do one drink. It was hot. And he could really use a glass of water because he’d been wrestling with the damn boat motor for over an hour now. It would have been nice, though, if Mia had actually asked. Instead, like always, she was all tell.
And assumptions.
Not waiting for his response, she strode away from him, laying in a course for the beach bar, and the possibility of his refusing orders was clearly not an option she’d entertained. But...he’d worked around her need to be in charge four years ago. She was simply Mia and a woman he’d like to get to know just a little bit better in the very limited time he had before he shipped out again and she...got on with her own life.
So he followed her pink-and-rhinestone backside up to the beach bar. His thoughts should be illegal. Sweep his thumbs beneath the edge of her bikini. One good tug and she’d come undone.
To his chagrin, the scene at the beach bar was worse than he’d anticipated. The bride high-fived Mia as if she’d scored a hat trick and won the game for the home team, while five other women in pink rhinestone bikinis eyed him assessingly. Hell. This was not a drink with an old Army buddy. This was an interrogation. Or the dating version of musical chairs.
“Sit there.” Mia pointed at the single empty seat beside a blond bridesmaid who looked as though she’d just won the lottery. At least they were color-coded. Pink for available and white for completely off-limits. He sat down in what he was fairly certain was Mia’s seat, but he wasn’t completely sure how he’d ended up here.
Mia made the introductions, then waved down a waiter and placed an order for another round of drinks. The two of them were the only ones going with iced tea today. He watched her effortlessly organize her bridesmaid troop. In some ways, she was just the same as before, giving orders, arranging things. With the best of intentions—he’d give her that. She wasn’t bossy just to be take-charge. It was simply that she was a planner and not afraid to assume command. Ever. In under five minutes, she had the drink orders marshaled, seats rearranged, and the conversational train headed in a pleasant direction.
“You’re active duty?” The bridesmaid next to him toyed with the dog tags around his neck. He put a few more inches of space between them, although there wasn’t much room to retreat. His leg bumped the bare thigh of the bride on the other side. Coward he mouthed at Mia. She’d stuck to her post on the far side of the group.
She grinned, a gleeful smile illuminating her face at his discomfort. Whoa. Her happiness was a one-two punch to his gut. Don’t think aboutwhat it felt like to be deep inside her. Good luck with that. Maybe she’d acquired mind-reading skills in her last deployment, because her smile widened. Instead of being all serious and take-charge, Sergeant Dominatrix had a fun side. Who knew?
“I’m helping out a buddy on the island. He’s launching a dive business and needed a few extra hands on deck. I’m active duty in six weeks.”
Which he hadn’t planned on doing when he’d first come out to Discovery Island. Not re-upping had been a done deal. And then he’d gotten a call from his team leader, asking for one more mission, one more deployment. He’d thought he’d picked a spot, decided to settle down. But he was...bored. His feet itched to go somewhere, anywhere. Air Rescue Swimmers didn’t just rescue the drowning. They also conducted surveillance in drug ops and ran recovery missions. Their CO needed someone with his skills—and Discovery Island didn’t need him. Daeg Ross could hire any other vet and that was the truth. He’d stick it out until the replacement guy showed up, and then he’d haul ass back to San Diego and his real job.
“Doing what?” His pink-and-rhinestone inquisitor scooted closer.
Keep it simple. “I’m a Navy rescue swimmer.”
Mia leaned across the table. “He picked up our pieces. If a pilot went down, Tag and his unit went in. They fished us out of the water. Bad storm, tsunami, sinking boat—they were our go-to guys.”
College had been as far out of reach for his eighteen-year-old self as a trip to the moon or Outer Mongolia. A week after his high school graduation, he’d enlisted. He’d completed two years of training in advanced swimming and lifesaving techniques, then deployed to his first squadron. He knew his weapons and tacticals, but his job had been rescuing people. He’d never been a combatant.
Unlike Mia.
She’d been fierce, a fighter in bed and out. The night they’d met, she’d been a fish out of water, sending him drinks at the bar and then looking insulted when he returned the gesture. Normally, he would have avoided a woman like her. After training hard, fighting tooth and nail for each rescue, he wanted a simple, uncomplicated hookup. But he hadn’t been able to keep away from Mia. Had instead followed her home when she’d looked over her shoulder at him and said come. Nothing about her had been relaxing or fun, but he hadn’t minded. Had, in fact, been hooked.
The bride looked at the two of them, her head snapping left, then right, as if she was watching a tennis match at Wimbledon. “You two know each other?”
Biblically.
“Mia bought me a drink once.” He tipped his head toward the former sergeant.
Who grinned right back at him. “And he was worth it. Best seven dollars I ever dropped in a bar.”
The bride shook her head. “Who knew you’d meet up again on Discovery Island?”
Who knew indeed? The iced tea level in his glass sank to the halfway point. The overabundance of sugar had his teeth curdling. “How long are you ladies in town for?”
The bride checked her phone. “Five more hours.”
Her face glowed as she inundated him with endless, incomprehensible details about her wedding in two months, and which families were flying from where. In his line of work, Tag had saved other people’s families. His first rescue had sent him a picture a couple of weeks after Tag had fished the guy out of the Pacific Ocean: the man had gone home, and his daughter had sent a photo of the two of them dancing at her wedding. That was a good picture, a good day.
While he made polite chitchat, he was aware of Mia getting up. She moved around the group, identifying drink recipients for the waiter with smooth efficiency. Alcoholic beverages sorted, she returned to the bride and produced a tube of sunscreen with an SPF of about a million and one.
“Strapless dress. Time to lather up.”
The bride obediently presented her back, and Mia got to work spreading the sunscreen over her bare shoulders. Slick with lotion, her hands slid up the tanned expanse of the bride’s back, then back down again...and, hello, hard-on.
Perfect. That was his cue. He stood up to leave and did his best to pretend bridesmaid number four hadn’t just patted his butt. Plausible deniability. Mia apparently had plenty of imagination herself, because she kept sliding him covert glances. She was good. He doubted any of her friends had noticed her interest.
He had.
He brushed past her, paused. “You need to stop staring.”
Chairs crowded their table at the beach bar, leaving limited room to maneuver. Instead of easing away from him, she lost her balance in the sand and made full body contact, her breasts pressed against his bare arm. One cotton T-shirt. One pink bikini top. There was nowhere near enough fabric between them.
She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. Too bad. He’d been enjoying the contact. “I’m not. Staring. At you.”
“Uh-huh.” Rattled was also a new condition for Mia. He’d seen her aroused and take-charge. Coming. Which was his personal favorite, because that was the closest she came to really letting go and...he needed to stop remembering. Right now. He nodded his head in the general direction of the bridal party. “Ladies. Thank you.”
Mia followed him of course, her flip-flops snapping loudly against the sand.
“Explain,” she demanded.
He flashed a smile at her, loving the way her fingers curled into her bare arms. He got to her. No matter what words came out of her prickly, sassy mouth, she wasn’t indifferent to him. At all.
“Remember—you don’t outrank me.” The unspoken anymore hung in the air between them. Yeah, spending time with Mia would be dangerous. He couldn’t afford a two-night stand with her, and she didn’t have room in her life for a man like him.
* * *
AS SOON AS Tag retreated, Mia’s ladies declared themselves ready to move on. Go figure. They’d been holding out for man candy, and, now that they’d had their taste, they were good. She stared after Tag’s mighty fine backside disappearing down the boardwalk. Worn denim cupped tight buns, hugging him in all the right places. She’d hung on to his butt, digging her fingers into the hard muscles as he worked himself... Shoot. He was right. She was staring.
“What’s next? Or should I ask—who?” Her cousin grinned happily at her.
Yeah. She had the same question. With five bridesmaids and one bride staring at her, however, she needed to pull it together. Her brief past with Tag Johnson was her own business, and discovering he’d somehow ended up on the same island as her—however briefly—was not something she needed to share. In fact, forgetting all about his sexy butt topped her current to-do list. She’d get right on it.
When her cousin stood up, the other women fell in behind her like baby ducks. Then they all turned and stared expectantly at Mia. Right. Because somehow she’d ended up in charge of this zoo. She consulted her iPad where she had their action plan for the day. Beach bar? Check. Next up was zip-lining.
Oh, joy.
Mia snuck one last look down the boardwalk, but Tag had disappeared. The boardwalk teemed with activity in the late afternoon sunshine with tourists strolling up and down in the palm tree–studded shade. Discovery Island appealed to her on a fundamental level. The place was pretty. It had palm trees. But, more importantly, the locals seemed friendly, and she’d bet there was just about zero crime. Whatever. Their cruise ship floating on the horizon was plenty of reminder. Five hours until departure.
Her own wistful sigh was irritating as heck.
Snap out of it. It wasn’t as if anything could have come of her chance encounter with Tag. A hot one-night fling didn’t mean he was up for a repeat performance. Or that she wanted one herself. Nope. She’d had her fun, and now she had a bachelorette party to lead. She motioned for the group to move out.
“Who’s ready for some zip-lining?”
3 (#ulink_228b8924-55f7-5f8b-9005-e67e448be221)
THROWING UP ON a public beach was rude. But Mia’s stomach wasn’t on board with being polite, the pounding headache building between her eyes demanded relief of one kind or another. She’d captured some great pictures of her cousin with the mock veil. The ATV ride had gone well. But the zip line...big mistake.
One of their guides had thought it would be fun to encourage them to spin upside down, and his impulsive gesture had triggered an episode of motion sickness she’d really rather forget. If she’d only stayed upright, her prescription would have continued to do its job. Instead, the overzealous guide had given her meds a workout her head couldn’t handle.
Not ready to confront a world that rocked violently up and down, she kept her eyes screwed shut. The rustle of palm fronds overhead was actually somewhat soothing. If she was lucky—and, given the way her day had gone so far, she probably shouldn’t be investing in lottery tickets—the darned tree wasn’t sporting any coconuts. Her head simply couldn’t take any more knocks. She waited for a moment for the universe to weigh in, but her life remained coconut-free. Good times.
“Mia?” Her cousin’s voice floated through the darkness, demanding attention. A hand squeezed her shoulder.
“That’s me,” she muttered.
“Are you okay?”
No. She absolutely, positively wasn’t.
“I’m going to head back to the boat and sleep off this headache,” she said instead. No way was she ruining her cousin’s day. “You guys finish up your shopping and I’ll meet you on the main deck for dinner.”
Tomorrow.
But there was no way she’d make it back on board without an assist right now. She could lie here. Work on her siesta skills. Maybe, if she closed her eyes for a few minutes, she wouldn’t need a helping hand from the boat’s crew. And there were worse things than taking a short nap beneath a palm tree, right?
“Are you sure?”
“You bet.”
“You want me to take your things for you?” Bags rustled.
“That would be great,” she groaned. Anything you want. Just go.
Ten minutes and a quick siesta.
All she needed was time to settle her stomach, and then she’d be good as new.
* * *
THE THUNDERSTORM MOVING toward Discovery Island had painted the last visible portions of the sky an ominous purple. The Fiesta cruise ship was a tiny white blob on the horizon...taking Mia and any chance of a reunion hookup with it. Temptation removed.
Even though Discovery Island wasn’t really his kind of place, Tag had to admit the evening scene was a fun one. Tourists strolled down the boardwalk, debating dinner options and enjoying the sea breeze. None of them looked at the horizon and weighed the possibility of a rescue call against the height of the waves and the distance to the ocean’s surface. He loved his job, and the siren call of the storm building on the horizon promised action and a good fight. When the rain and the waves hit, wreaking their usual havoc, the island would need him. He’d have things to do.
Sitting still and watching wasn’t his thing, because he didn’t run with the vacation crowd anymore than he did with the casserole crowd. The avid interest of Discovery Island’s long-term residents in his dating life was off-putting. To say the least. The attention shouldn’t have bothered him since he was used to living life in a fishbowl. But Discovery Island was a small place, and some days it felt more like he was a tasty squid swimming in a shark tank at a very public aquarium. Even the rescue-ops part of the job had dating perils—his last rescue, the eighty-one year-old Ellie Damiano, was still trying to set him up with her granddaughter.
Somehow, the things he rescued always stuck to him. Sure, he might have wrapped an arm around Mrs. Damiano and talked with her. But what other choice did he have? She’d just driven her car off the road and into two feet of water. She’d needed an ear to bend, and he had two perfectly good ones. He’d listened. And listened. And then listened some more. He swore, Mrs. Damiano had more to say than anyone he’d ever met before. Now she was grateful, wanting to do something nice for him, and he didn’t have the heart to turn that down.
He just didn’t want to go out with her granddaughter.
As the last few sunbathers packed it in, vacating the creamy strip of sand between the boardwalk and the surf, he turned away from the radar showing only empty waters around Discovery Island—no enemy hostiles or floundering commercial liners or even a capsized fishing boat—and got down to business. The sooner he said the words, the sooner he could get on with what needed doing, so he turned back to face the two men in Deep Dive’s command center. He’d served with both Daeg and Cal for multiple tours of duty, but the bond between them was more than a shared set of missions. There was no one he’d trust more with his back, and each of them had stood by the others on rescues.
“I re-upped.” Short and sweet. A declarative sentence rather than a question, because his going back to San Diego wasn’t open for negotiation.
Cal looked up from the mountain of paper on his desk and cursed. “Don’t tell me. This is Mrs. Damiano’s fault. You could try going out with her granddaughter and see if a date stops her.”
The man had five-o’clock shadow at midafternoon and a pyramid of Red Bull cans teetering in front of him. He’d been the one to conceive of the dive business in the first place, convinced the small California island where he’d grown up was in desperate need of an adventure diving outfit. Plus, he’d taken on the task of setting up a search-and-rescue program for the area. The local Coast Guard was overwhelmed and focused more on running down drug traffickers than fishing distressed pleasure boaters out of the water. Cal, of course, was committed to keeping everyone safe. Juggling both meant less sleep for everyone, although his buddy had never complained.
Reaching over, Tag swiped a stack of papers from Mount Paperwork. Cal didn’t protest. The first one was an invoice for emergency supplies, but the second was for parts for the chopper. Lots and lots of parts. Lovely. They needed a mechanic. Or stock in an aviation company. Their used bird was a work in progress with more face-lifts than an aging beauty queen. The chopper was also an expensive work in progress, as Cal liked to point out with annoying frequency. Restoration had been Tag’s responsibility, in between running dives and setting up training exercises. Apparently, he should have made time for bookkeeping. Or kidnapping an accountant.
“I can handle Mrs. Damiano.” Not. The old woman redefined determined. “Our CO needs a pilot,” he said, when the silence stretched on too long.
Daeg signed a check and shoveled papers into an envelope. “You’re not the only sailor who knows how to fly a bird or run a rescue op,” he pointed out.
True enough. The Spec Ops boys were planning on taking out a drug op in South America, however, and their CO knew the mission would hit a personal hot spot with Tag. Passion counted, because a soldier who took the mission personally would go the extra mile every time.
Passion aside, he was also pretty much the only man available at the moment. “He asked. Most of the other guys are already assigned. I’m not.”
Cal cracked a new can of Red Bull, tipping it in Tag’s direction. “Cheers, then.”
Mission accomplished, Tag kept right on sorting, circling and adding invoices. Maybe before he went away, he’d post on craigslist for an office manager. The silence built up until Tag was itching to move. But he had more numbers to add, and shoving the pile back on to Cal’s desk wasn’t happening. The guy was exhausted.
He grabbed a stamp, peeled and stuck. “We need help. Office help.”
“Speak for yourself.” Cal flipped Tag the bird. “Because I’m doing just fine here, and Dani’s going to be helping us out in a month or two.”
Daeg grinned. “She estimates another two to three weeks. Just long enough for us to get really desperate.”
Dani Andrews, Daeg’s fiancée, was an actuary and damned good with numbers. She was in the process of setting up a freelance business on the island, but she was currently snowed under with clients. She’d promised to help out just as soon as she could clear the decks, and bringing her on board would be great. The heap of papers on Cal’s desk listed sideways, and Cal cursed, making a grab for the topmost invoices as Mount Paperwork toppled over and hit the floor.
“Right. Or maybe we can’t wait.”
Cal scooped up the papers and deposited them back on the desk. Shoving to his feet, he prowled toward the front of the dive center. The air was thick outside, vibrating with tension as the purple clouds swept closer and closer toward the island.
Cal stared outside with the same kind of longing Tag felt. “Storm’s moving in.”
“Not a bad one.” The thunderstorm headed their way was the usual summer fare. It would bring plenty of heat and some flash-bang. It wasn’t the kind, however, that led to flooding and rescue calls. He could go home and crash. This would be a quick, wet, loud summer storm, but the property damage would be minimal, and no one would be getting hurt. No one would need him tonight.
A good night.
The wind was picking up, whipping the tops of the palms back and forth. The beach was all but deserted now, except for a single woman leaning against a palm, seemingly asleep. She wore a navy blue sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over her head, and a pair of cotton shorts that hugged her butt and left her long, tanned legs on display. Maybe she was grabbing a last moment of toes-in-the-sand fun or maybe she was waiting for someone. “You’re staring.” Cal punched him in the shoulder.
Maybe. But he wasn’t responsible for where his eyes went when he was thinking. Some things actually were beyond his control. Kind of like his one night with Mia, his head—and another body part—reminded him. His lack of control should have embarrassed him, but she’d been right there with him. He’d never been one for picking women up at a bar, but for Mia he’d made an exception, and he still wasn’t sure why. Not because she was gorgeous—although she was and that had certainly helped persuade him—but for some other reason he couldn’t put into words.
“I’m staring at the beach,” he countered. Liar.
“A beach with women on it.” Daeg said, coming up behind them. He’d met his fiancée on Discovery Island when a bad tropical storm had sent him out to rescue her from a flooding Jeep. Tag didn’t need or want to know what had happened when the pair had holed up to wait out the storm, but he’d seen the ring—and he’d seen the look on Daeg’s face. The man had fallen, and fallen hard.
Tag raised a brow, because no way he was letting Daeg off easily. “Now you’re looking, too.”
A small smile tugged at his friend’s lips. Yeah...they were both busted. “I’m not dead.”
No, but Daeg was disgustingly happy with the soon-to-be Mrs. Ross. Although Tag strongly suspected the bride would keep her own name. Independent, strong-minded and fun, Dani was the perfect woman for Daeg, and Tag was happy for them. He really was. He knew he sported a big-ass grin whenever he thought about the two of them and this place. Discovery Island had the heart of a small town, a heart he recognized. He’d been born and raised in Rutland, Vermont. In his small New England town, plenty of people knew his name and his business. You kissed a girl, and every relative, every member of her church, started looking for commitment and a ring. So far, Discovery Island had been a good station. It certainly wasn’t fighting a losing battle against street drugs.
Not that Rutland was any kind of inner city ghetto with urban blight on display on every corner. Nope. The clapboard houses in his hometown were run-down some, but when the snow fell or the leaves changed, pretty enough. The problem had been the baggies of drugs flowing in from urban centers, marked up and selling fast. He’d had friends boast about fortunes made selling heroin they’d bought off the runners who made daily trips from New York City to Vermont.
More than one of his high school friends had kept hidden stashes of cash, guns and drugs, tooling around in an SUV and making deals. Just blue-collar folks sucked into a morass of drugs and all the accompanying bad shit. It was your neighbor breaking into your house and boosting your electronics because he was jonesing for a fix and flat broke. Tag had lost a girlfriend to drug addiction. He’d stuck it out for as long as possible, but then he’d finally had to let go. He had a feeling, though, Daeg was going to have the happy ending.
“You’ll be a dead man if Dani catches you eyeing the scenery.” A grin split Cal’s face.
“Right.” Daeg rocked back on his heels. “And Piper won’t mind at all if you’re looking at other women.”
Cal held up a hand. “Hey, you started it. I’m just finishing things here. Closing the loop. Making sure you all behave.”
Right. While Cal and Daeg bickered amicably, Sleeping Beauty woke up. Levering herself away from the tree and grabbing her towel, she wrapped the blue-and-white stripes around her like a cloak, bent over and threw up. Then she curled into a small ball, as if even the thought of moving was too much. He knew the feeling, but he also knew the skies were close to opening up and drenching the beach. She couldn’t stay where she was. She’d either be brained by errant coconuts or drowned.
Maybe she was drunk.
Or had some kind of virulent bird flu.
Whatever her issue, it wasn’t his problem. Still, when she heaved again, his own gut twinged in sympathy. Daeg frowned, and Tag didn’t have to look over at Cal to know the other man’s face reflected a similar concern. None of them could walk past a civilian in need of a rescue.
“She need an assist?” Cal fished his cell phone out of his pocket, clearly running possible rescue missions through his head.
“Ouch.” Daeg winced sympathetically as the subject of their attention hunched over, looking more miserable by the second.
Surely someone would show up and lead her off. She couldn’t be here by herself. One set of dry heaves later, however, and she was still alone. Damn it.
Daeg hummed a few bars of the Lone Ranger theme music. “He’s going to do it.”
Cal looked at him. “Yep.”
Tag didn’t even have to ask. “Someone has to rescue her. You two could volunteer.”
“Sure, but we don’t have to,” Cal admitted cheerfully. “We’ve got you to go in for us. Plus, you’re the only one who’s still single, just in case she’s like Mrs. Damiano and decides rescue service is a synonym for dating service.”
Daeg hesitated. The guy’s white-knight complex would get him into serious trouble someday. Pot meet kettle. “You’ll take care of her?”
“Yeah.” Joking aside, it went without saying none of them would leave a woman alone on a beach in distress. Since he was the only one who didn’t have someone waiting at home for him, he figured that made him tonight’s rescuer elect. “I’ve got her.”
“If you need help—” Again, some things didn’t have to be said.
He flipped Cal the bird. “I’m good. Go get on with your life. Kiss Piper for me. Have some fun.”
He strode down the boardwalk, hung a left and crunched his way out onto the sand. Yeah, he liked his combat boots because, sue him, the military gave good boot. Part of him thought rushing to the lady’s rescue was a stupid idea, but then she made a small sound of distress and finished unloading the contents of her stomach on the palm tree next to his bike. Okay, scratch that.
She needed help.
Five feet away and closing fast, he spotted a flash of pink. Which could have been a coincidence. Plenty of women had pink swimsuits, and the last female he’d seen in a pink swimsuit was supposed to be on a cruise ship at sea. Not here.
Two feet out, he scuffed the sand because he didn’t want to add a heart attack to the woman’s woes. She had the towel pulled up over her head like a cloak, one suntanned arm braced against the sand. This close, he could read the word bridesmaid on her arm where someone had written it in sunscreen. It was the kind of practical joke he’d play on Daeg—or that Mia’s bridesmaids might have thought up. Damn it.
Please, please, don’t let her be here.
* * *
SOMEONE LARGE AND MALE crouched down beside her. Usually, Mia would have taken defensive measures, but right now she was too miserable to care. The world swung in dizzying circles, making her stomach lurch up and down.
“Mia?” Okay. She cared. She recognized that deep growly voice. Tag was back.
Don’t groan because you might puke on his feet. “I already bought you a thank-you drink. Don’t you ever go away?”
He pressed a bottle of cold water into her hand, and, okay, she might have moaned. Even if he couldn’t be bought off with beverages, apparently she could.
“All the time. In fact, I have a date with Uncle Sam in six weeks. Rinse and spit.”
To her eternal shame, she did as he ordered. He measured her pulse, then tilted her head back to check her pupils. She let him because, right now, she was too wiped out to fight. If Tag had apparently decided to become her very own EMT tonight, she’d work with him. Tomorrow was plenty of time to take issue with his high-handed behavior.
“Follow my finger,” he said gruffly, moving his finger first left, then right. “Alcohol? Bird flu? Bad run-in with a zip line?”
His face was close to hers. Kissing distance, in fact, although she bet kissing was the last thing on his mind right now. His eyes were hazel with gold flecks, something she either hadn’t noticed or had forgotten. Huh. Her Senior Chief had pretty eyes.
“Zip line,” she muttered, when he let the silence stretch on.
“How?” Brow furrowing with concern, he immediately started palpating her arms as if he feared she’d somehow fallen off the zip line and then crawled to the beach to lick her wounds.
“Geez.” She knocked his hands away. “I didn’t fall off the thing. I just got dizzy.”
He rocked back on his heels. “You’re motion sick?”
“Got it in one.”
He eased her upright. “Okay. Deep breath.”
“I know what to do.”
“Uh-huh. This happens often?”
When he turned her forearm over, she spotted the bridesmaid temporarily tattooed on her skin.
“I owe someone for that.” Probably her cousin. It was exactly the kind of thing Laurel would do.
“Let’s focus on you right now.” Tag slid his thumbs down her wrist and pushed on a spot. “Give me ten,” he said, when she tried to yank her arm away.
Leaning backward against him, supported by the strong column of his thighs, was no hardship. Her fingers flexed, finding denim. Shoot. There was nothing professional about this, although he didn’t seem to mind.
“How were you injured?” He sounded matter-of-fact, but she’d bet he wouldn’t be happy if she trotted out all of his vulnerabilities with a cheery let’s discuss.
“Uncle Sam and the call of duty. Now, go away.” The words sounded childish, but she didn’t care. The world wasn’t swinging quite so badly anymore, the nausea dissipating now that her stomach had emptied itself. Yeah, the worst was over, but she was so not winning any prizes for elegance. Good thing she wasn’t still attracted to Tag.
“You don’t really want me to leave.” Amusement colored his deep voice.
“And you’d be wrong. Ask me why.”
His hand rubbed a small, lazy circle against the back of her neck, and the water bottle returned to her mouth. “Small sip.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because you threw up on my motorcycle.” She followed his pointing finger, and, sure enough, there was a big black Harley parked beside her palm tree haven. She’d missed his tires. Score one for her. “And because you need help.”
“You make a career out of rescuing damsels in distress? And, for the record, I didn’t hit your bike.” She sounded bitchy. She knew that. Accepting help, however, was out of the question. She stood on her own two feet. Or, she admitted wryly, lay on her own butt. Whatever it took. With her brothers and her father all being active duty, bitchy had been the only way to hold her own. Give them an inch and they’d smother her with love and concern. Of course, Tag wasn’t offering love, but, still...she had this. She’d led a team in Afghanistan until she’d retired, so handling a bout of motion sickness was child’s play.
“You want to ask me why I’m so certain you need help?” His calm voice annoyed her, she decided. As did the supreme confidence with which he moved his hands over her body. She just might live, however, thanks to his nifty acupressure trick. Two inches down her wrist and press hard. She could do that.
She took a good look around her, expanding her world beyond the sand, the man and the Harley. Post-sunset shadows painted the sand with stripes of dark. The cruise ship sailed at five o’clock. The beach around her had emptied out, and the sun was no more than a red-orange sliver above the horizon. And...no ocean liner bobbing away on the water or even anywhere to be seen. She asked the obvious question, even though she knew what the answer was going to be. Too late. You snooze, you lose.
“What time is it?”
“Seven.” He extended the wrist with the dive watch so she could see for herself.
“They sailed without me.” Her brain tried to kick into planning mode, but a bout of motion sickness always wiped her out, leaving her fuzzy-headed. Finishing her siesta here on the beach had sounded like a decent enough plan—she could figure things out in the morning.
“No public camping on the beach,” he said pleasantly, as if he’d read her mind. “Go ahead and say it. It won’t kill you.”
“Fine. Can you recommend a hotel for the night?” The emergency twenty bucks and the cell phone she’d shoved in her shorts pocket wouldn’t take her far. She’d have to call for cash and new cards. Rejoining the cruise was probably not feasible—the ship was headed down the California coast for a quick pit stop in Ensenada, Mexico, and then to Cabo, where everyone would get off and fly home. By the time she made it to an airport, her cousin would already be airborne.
“Mia.” She felt rather than saw him shake his head. “That’s not happening. You can spend the night with me.”
“I’m fine.”
Liar.
Her gaze dropped to his hands. His strong, capable hands that were holding her up because otherwise she was likely to butt-plant on the sand. She hated feeling weak. Hated being weak.
“You can’t stay here,” he said, using his calm, logical voice again. She wondered what it would take to get him angry and loud. “You’re sick. You’re homeless. And, since I don’t see a purse, I suspect you’re broke, as well.”
“You certainly know how to lift a girl’s spirits.”
He kept right on talking. “So, the way I see it, you need a place to fall back to for the night.”
He was right, damn him. She chewed on her lower lip as she thought her situation through. Twenty bucks simply didn’t go far, and she didn’t have so much as an ID with her because her cousin had taken Mia’s purse back to the ship. Tag didn’t say anything as he waited for her to come to the obvious conclusion.
“Are you going to make me say it?”
His sigh ruffled her hair. “Yes, Mia, I am.”
Problem was, she was best at giving orders. Not taking them. He didn’t say anything else, though, and he was right, damn it. She needed somewhere to spend the night, she was temporarily broke and she knew him.
“Take me home with you.” She wouldn’t, couldn’t say please.
“You got it.” He rose smoothly, setting her back on her own two feet. So why, if he’d given her exactly what she’d wanted, did she feel disappointed?
4 (#ulink_830e2c4b-15b5-538e-99d8-c658dd807eca)
TAG’S PLACE WAS a short walk from the beach. It figured a Navy man would want to be near the water. What she hadn’t expected was the picture-pretty complex of little apartments built for one. The place screamed cute, starting with the courtyard filled with tropical plants and a hot-pink fuchsia shrub going crazy. Tag headed straight for the first place on the left, unlocked a set of glass French doors and then hesitated. She really hoped he wasn’t about to rescind his invitation, because she was tired enough now to beg. Tomorrow was soon enough to sort out the crazy mess her life had become.
He looked down at her, where she was plastered up against his side pretending this was a voluntary closeness rather than him holding her up. “You don’t mind animals, do you?”
Right now, she’d kill for a pillow and a bed. “Is that a euphemism?”
She was only willing to take this white knight thing so far, although she’d even consider trading sexual favors for a toothbrush right now. Whatever he was asking, though, was lost when one of his neighbors—an elderly one from the quavering sound of the voice—bellowed out his window at them in a voice that was probably audible back on the beach.
“Is she your girlfriend? Hot damn!”
Wow. Tag got around. She leaned against him harder. “Girlfriend?”
Tag blushed, dark color staining his cheeks. Holy moly. She didn’t know the man had it in him. “Mr. Bradley may be under a mistaken impression.”
Uh-huh. She’d just bet.
“That’s Mr. Bentley to you. Check my mailbox next time you forget my name.”
“Either you have a girlfriend or you don’t.” She might have been out of the dating pool for a few years, but even she knew that much. Tag muttered something, taking the high road, and shoved the doors open. Whatever. She’d be the first to admit her social skills were rusty. She waved in Mr. Bentley’s general direction and followed Tag inside. He wasn’t much on furniture—he had a couch and a coffee table and nothing else—but a fifty-pound bag of dog food dwarfed the kitchen counter. The bag of cat food next to it wasn’t much smaller, completely overshadowing a couple of browning bananas. Maybe he had monkeys, too, because the man clearly had hidden depths.
“You have pets,” she said, stating the obvious as a white boxer wearing a happy grin loped toward them, followed by a Chihuahua suffering from some kind of eye infection. A geriatric cat and a rabbit brought up the rear of the parade. Honest to God, the man had his own Easter bunny, even if he’d apparently passed on the monkeys.
She hazarded a random guess because it had been a day full of surprises. “You’ve become a vet because rescue swimming is so boring.”
“No.” He greeted the dogs and the cat, picking up the rabbit and tucking it beneath his arm. Tag’s place was definitely small. He had a teeny living room and a galley kitchen too miniscule to hold the two of them. “Meet Ben Franklin, Buckeye, Beauregard, and Cadbury. Cadbury’s the one with the floppy ears, in case you’re wondering, but they’re all boys, and no one comes when called. The bathroom’s through there,” he said, waving a hand toward the hall.
“Are you moonlighting as Doctor Doolittle?” Snarking distracted her from the residual queasiness in her stomach—and the awkwardness of being here, alone with him, when she had memories of him naked. “Why all the animals?”
He shrugged, a powerful roll of his shoulders. “They needed a place.”
She settled for escaping into the bathroom while he fed his menagerie. The man even had a bonus toothbrush, which after her palm-tree encounter, she was pathetically grateful for. Mint had never tasted so good—and was all she wanted to taste right now. Not a big, too-charming, badass Navy man who thought she needed rescuing. No way, no how.
* * *
TAG HAD RENTED the apartment furnished from Mr. Bentley, and taking things month-to-month had seemed wise. Now with his plans to leave Discovery Island firmed up, the decision was even more fortunate. It wasn’t like he owned any furniture anyhow. He’d always traveled light, and his non-ops stuff fit in a pair of duffel bags. So he shouldn’t have this strange, warm feeling of satisfaction, getting Mia on his turf. The first time—the last time, he reminded himself—they’d gone at it in her hotel room. The place had been perfectly comfortable, and they’d really only been interested in the bed. The wall. He grinned slyly. And the floor...
The boxer bumped his leg, making himself known. “Lucky dog.”
Ben Franklin panted happily up at him, everything right in his doggie world.
Tag’s own life wasn’t quite as simple, and Mia was just the latest symptom. He was a sucker for four-legged and lonely. He’d have to figure something out, though, before he headed back to San Diego in six weeks. Base housing wouldn’t allow animals, and, although he could rent a place off base, finding a pet-friendly landlord would be a challenge. And, besides, animals couldn’t be left alone for months on end. Somehow, he needed to re-home the menagerie in the next six weeks. He definitely shouldn’t have named them.
Buckeye gave him a reproachful glare, as if he’d read Tag’s mind and knew the guy who provided the dog chow was having second thoughts. Or getting attached. Yeah. It was the attached part that posed a problem.
“We should get her a shirt, yeah?” One way or another, he’d figure out a solution to his animal woes. Maybe Dani need a dog. Or two. And Piper was definitely a cat person.
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