Читать онлайн книгу «Terms of Surrender» автора Leslie Kelly

Terms of Surrender
Leslie Kelly
Subject: Danny Wilkes, navy pilot.Current status: On shore rotation. Very intrigued by a sassy visiting lecturer…Mission: Enter the astronaut training program.Obstacle: Marissa Marshall, Ph.D. She's keeping Danny preoccupied with earthly delights…Danny Wilkes might have outgrown his risk-taking flyboy days, but he still loves a thrill now and then. And nobody's thrilled him lately like fiery Mari Marshall. Sex with her is a bigger turn-on than any of the air maneuvers Danny's ever pulled. He falls head over heels…hard.But Mari has bitter memories of being a military brat. She'll never enter that life again–not even for the best sex she's ever had.It's a hell of a choice. Does Danny give up his skyrocketing career? Or let go of the only woman who revs his engine into the stratosphere?


Twelve military heroes.
Twelve indomitable heroines.
One UNIFORMLY HOT! miniseries.
Don’t miss a story in Harlequin Blaze’s
12-book continuity series featuring irresistible soldiers from all branches of the armed forces.
Now serving—
those ready and able heroes in the U.S. Navy…
HIGHLY CHARGED!
by Joanne Rock
April 2011
HIGH STAKES SEDUCTION
by Lori Wilde
May 2011
TERMS OF SURRENDER
by Leslie Kelly
June 2011
Uniformly Hot!—
The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell!


Dear Reader,
Don’t you just love a man in uniform?
There’s something so sexy about a strong, powerful guy whose clothes proclaim him to be a hero. Especially if his words and actions back it up.
I live in Maryland, not far from Annapolis, and there have been many spring days when I’ve seen that town filled to the brim with handsome young students from the Naval Academy, clad in their dress whites. Believe me, these “Middies” are a featured attraction.
I hope you enjoy Danny and Marissa’s story. Danny is my kind of hero—smart, sexy, charming, loyal. In this story, it was the heroine who had to prove to me that she was worthy of the hero, and I think she did.
While you’re reading, please be on the lookout for one of my favorite characters: Brionne, the heroine’s adorable cat. Brionne is actually based on a real-life furry friend who’s looking for a forever home (she really does play fetch!). If you’re an animal lover—like so many of the Blaze authors are—please check out blazeauthors.com to find out about our new Pet Project!
Best wishes and happy reading!
Leslie Kelly

Terms of Surrender
Leslie Kelly


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leslie Kelly has written dozens of books and novellas for Harlequin Blaze, Temptation and HQN. Known for her sparkling dialogue, fun characters and depth of emotion, her books have been honored with numerous awards, including the National Readers’ Choice Award, the RT Book Reviews Award, and three nominations for the highest award in romance, the RWA RITA®. Leslie resides in Maryland with her own romantic hero, Bruce, and their three daughters. Visit her online at www.lesliekelly.com.
To Brenda.
I can’t say it enough but I’ll just keep trying.
Thank you.

Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue

Prologue
Friday 5/6/11, 07:00 a.m.
www.mad-mari.com/2011/05/06/friday-contest
Happy Friday!
Those of you who are regulars here at Mad-Mari.com know I belong to the I-love-Fridays cult. Not just because it’s the end of the work week (except for me, the unemployed, but more on that later) but because it’s my favorite day here on the blog. Every Friday, I invite you to share tales of your bad dates from last weekend, and we all get to spend the day thinking how great it is that ours aren’t the only love lives that suck. Wahoo!
You know the drill, just leave a comment, describing how bad things were on your last date. Most entertaining story—decided solely by me, ’cause, I am master of this here e-universe—gets an autographed copy of my new book.
Now, a bit of good news for me, which might be bad news for you, depending on how much you like to hang out here on my blog. Tomorrow, I actually have a job interview. For a real job. In the real world. AK!
Okay, it’s not permanent—just a summer gig. But I can’t tell you how much I need it. To answer the question before you ask—no, my two books have not made me rich. Some men just don’t seem to get my humor, plus I have a lot of student loans to pay off. (And no, for the last time, I’m not telling you where I went to school, or what I studied. Trust me. It’s boring.)
I plan to spend the day getting prepped—touching up the résumé, brushing up on interview etiquette, plucking my eyebrows. (Ow!) So you all feel free to talk about those bad dates and I’ll check in later tonight, okay?
P.S. Thought for the day: Is it better to be unemployed and happy, or have a good-paying job you hate? Discuss!
Friday 5/6/11, 11:15 p.m.
www.mad-mari.com/2011/05/06/friday-contest
Comment #114
Promised I’d check in! I’m about to hit the hay but wanted to choose a winner from today’s sucky-date contest.
Rachel from Boston wins an autographed copy of one of my books. Sorry to everyone else who entered, but I can’t even imagine what it was like to go on a date with a crazy dude whose opening line was, “I like to sneak into my mother’s room, steal her panties and dance around in them, like I’m Britney Spears.”
Uhh…eww.
Rachel, honey? Please tell me you didn’t let this guy know where you live. If you did, I hope you have a fresh supply of mace. And antibacterial soap. And a lock on your underwear drawer.
Hmm. What’s more disturbing about this story? A grown man’s mother having Britney Spears-ish panties, or her son wearing them?
Okay, gotta run. Please wish me luck on the job interview tomorrow. Can’t tell you more about it—as you know, I like to keep my Mad-Mari stuff on the down low, separate from my real world junk.
But trust me, this job? Well, let’s just say it involves me swimming in a huge sea of testosterone.
Here I go…diving in!
Mari

1
MARISSA MARSHALL LOVED clear, sunny spring days, and, so far, this early May one was reminding her why.
Having lived in Baltimore for five years, she was used to gray, smoggy skies during the cold, bleak winter, and hazy ones in the summer. Fall was nice, with changing leaves ranging from pale yellow to deep rust. But in spring, Maryland came alive.
There was so much color. Cherry blossoms and azaleas dotted the landscape with pink and red. Lush farmlands erupted in mixed tones of new, freshly turned earth. With the soft green waters of the Atlantic, and the warm yellow sun drenching the robin’s-egg-blue sky with life, the state was an artist’s palette.
Funny, though. Her favorite part of spring—the color she most enjoyed on a beautiful day like this—was no color at all.
It was white. Just white. A sea of it.
“Dazzling,” Marissa said. Though she’d been speaking to a woman behind the counter of the coffee shop where she’d stopped for a caffeine injection, she was looking out the window.
Students from the U.S. Naval Academy, wearing their immaculate uniforms, filled the streets of Annapolis. Though now coed, the USNA’s student body was primarily male. So on this lovely Saturday afternoon, the town appeared full to the brim of handsome young midshipmen—aka middies—in their dress whites, all celebrating making it through another tough year at the academy.
Women from all over the state flocked here on sunny spring days, just to have a good drool. Marissa among them.
“God, how can you survive this much hotness 24/7?”
The woman grunted. “They’re always broke. I don’t care how hot they are, I just wonder if they have cash in their pockets.”
Marissa would probably wonder less about the contents of their pockets and more about what was in the rest of their pants. Anyone who didn’t have something dangling in their own pants would. As would danglers with same-sex preferences.
The USNA might be renowned for its educational excellence, but a close second would have to be its military beefcake. Even Marissa, who had been single for so long she could call herself a sexual vegetarian, suddenly found herself craving a Manwich.
She knew better than to ever take a bite, though. Uniformed beefcake might taste good, but the thought of that uniform got stuck in her craw, choking her. She might like looking at them, but she had no use for military men. Not after having been sired by one. Her father was about as affectionate as a jellyfish.
Besides, lately, even men without uniforms had been few and far between. That, however, was her own fault. In her real life, she was an overeducated nerd who’d just completed a doctoral program from one of the most prestigious universities in the country—Johns Hopkins. So she intimidated most men.
In her secret life, she was persona non grata with the male half of civilization due to her snarky books: Why Do Men Suck? and Thanks, But I’ll Just Keep My Vibrator.
How strange that her blog, Mad-Mari.com, which she’d launched six years ago after a really bad date, had landed her here. What had started as an internet rant had grown into a website with tons of followers. Then came a book deal.
As Mad-Mari, she was sassy and irreverent while venting about the hell called dating and relationships. She’d railed against cheaters, chauvinists and misogynistic assholes. She’d met lots of those in academia, not to mention in the military world in which she’d been raised. Meanwhile, she’d also been writing her much more proper, respectable dissertation which touched on similar topics, just in a scholarly, scientific way.
In other words, no snark.
Thankfully, she’d published the books under a pseudonym. Very few people realized that the infamous man-bashing internet star, Mad-Mari, was really Marissa Marshall, PhD, whose dissertation had been excerpted in a highly respected psychology journal and in a military magazine. And she intended to keep it that way.
The barista set a cup on the counter. “Honestly, I’ve never been tempted to trade in my granny panties for something with cougar stripes—they’re practically babies.”
They might be babies next to the fiftyish server, but not to Marissa. The oldest cadets were twenty-three or so, not that far from her twenty-nine. But in terms of life experience, they were a different generation. From age fourteen, Marissa had been thrust into adulthood, nearly raising her own younger siblings.
There hadn’t been much choice after their mother left.
While studying to earn her doctorate in psychology, she’d spent a lot of time trying to understand that. If pressed, she’d probably have to admit that trying to understand what drove people like her parents to do the things they did was one reason she’d settled on psychology from the day she’d started college.
Oh, she got why the marriage had failed—her father was one of those chauvinistic misogynists she wrote about, cold and aloof. Not to mention a cheat, seeming to have a new affair on every base. But she couldn’t grasp how a mother could decide to pay him back by having an affair of her own, then leave her kids, keeping in touch only with an occasional call or card. Some things, she suspected, she would never understand, no matter how many degrees she earned or how many letters came after her name.
“You have a good day. Try not to trip and fall into a pile of hot boys now, ya hear?” said the woman behind the counter.
Not impossible, given her three-inch heels. “Thanks.”
Stepping outside, she instinctively closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. She lived near the Inner Harbor, but the air didn’t smell nearly as potent. Downtown Baltimore lacked this fragrant mixture of saltwater, sweat and male.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a deep voice said.
Her eyes flying open, she saw a twentyish guy, dressed all in white. Marissa had stepped right into his path. “My fault.”
Then something sunk in. He’d called her ma’am.
“Ma’am?” she mumbled. The professor under whom Marissa had interned was a ma’am. Her elderly neighbor, whose apartment always smelled like pickled beets, she was a ma’am. But Marissa?
When, by God, did I become a ma’am?
“Today, that’s a good thing,” she told herself. Today, she wanted to convey seriousness, maturity. Ma’am-ness. Today she was not Mad-Mari, she was Dr. Marissa Marshall. Even if she didn’t yet know who that was, other than a name on a résumé.
It was time to find out. Some people said going to school for so long and making a living by writing sassy words in the comfort of her own living room had been her means of escaping the reality of adulthood. Well, her best friend said it. And maybe her favorite college professor had, too. Maybe she had been putting off the inevitable. Maybe the newly degreed shrink in her head was right in suspecting she’d been so sick of being forced to be an adult when she was a teenager that she’d needed to drop all responsibilities and focus only on herself during her twenties.
But that was over. She was ready for whatever came next, ready for part two of her life. Her blog and her books had been fun. They’d been stress relievers during her all-men-suck period (hence the title of her book). But she was a professional now. Time to put away the snark and move forward.
That’s why her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. That’s why she’d dressed in a simple blouse and a borrowed skirt—her own clothes being far too Mad-Mari-ish for Marissa Marshall. That’s why she wore painful black pumps, more appropriate for a funeral in January than an appointment at the USNA in May. That’s why she had actually contorted herself into a pair of pantyhose for the first time in several years.
Because today, she would be meeting with a Deputy to the Commandant of the Midshipmen, to convince him to hire her to give some guest lectures on campus. She needed the work. She needed the professional credit. And frankly, she needed the money.
Her royalties on her first book had been eaten up by tuition—Johns Hopkins was in no way cheap. The advance on her second book had been keeping her fed, but it was almost gone. There should be more coming in, but, in publishing, money flowed with the speed of sap off an elm. Whatever else she earned she would use to hang out her counseling shingle. For now, though, she couldn’t afford insurance, much less office space.
So hearing from her former professor that the USNA was interested in talking to her about doing a few guest lectures for summer students had been a lifeline tossed when she’d been trying to decide between her cell phone and her cable-TV bills. The phone was important. But she wasn’t sure she could give up her Starz Channel dates with the hot gladiators on Spartacus.
“Okay, gotta nail this,” she said as she got into her car.
Reaching for her notebook, she read over the details for the interview. “King George Street to Gate 1,” she mumbled. “First meeting at two, check in with security an hour before.”
Oh, God. How had she forgotten that? She’d been so focused on preparing for the interview, she’d neglected the details!
“You idiot,” she howled, eyeing the clock. Five ’til one.
Thrusting the key in the ignition, she prayed the car—which had been giving her trouble—would start easily. Fortunately, it groaned only once, then fired up.
Using a lead foot on the gas pedal, she got to the academy in a few minutes. Spying the correct building and the Employees Only lot in front, she weighed her options. The lot was almost empty, so she wouldn’t be taking anybody’s spot. Plus, if she had her way, she would be an employee this summer.
Decision made. Parking quickly, she exited the car, pausing to retuck her blouse and smooth her skirt. The pantyhose were beyond annoying, and she took a second to try to twist them into position. Which just tugged her panties into the wrong position.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she whispered, feeling the elastic panty line riding way too high on one cheek. Her too-tight skirt probably magnified the thing like a microscope did an amoeba.
Marissa did the wedgie-dance, wishing she wore thongs—it felt like she was wearing one, anyway. Better yet, she should have scraped up the money for new clothes that fit better. But the interview had come up suddenly and a borrowed skirt in her size had sounded fine, until she’d put it on this morning. It seemed the months of writing at home had added to her waistline, not to mention her hips and butt. The long pencil skirt fit like a casing on a sausage. And the sausage was trying to escape.
She tried tugging, keeping her backside toward the interior of the car so nobody would be able to see from the windows fronting the lot. But it didn’t help much. Her inner Dr. Marshall told her to just forget it and hope nobody noticed the obnoxious panty lines. But, damn, she did not want some military man eyeing her tush any more than necessary in the tight skirt.
Then…disaster. She tugged too hard, and felt the whispery sensation of a run sliding down the length of one leg. She looked down to see a thick, ugly line appear at her knee and keep right on going until it disappeared into her shoe. “Shit!”
Panty lines were one thing. A huge freaking run down her shin? Was she just destined to not get this job?
Do something!
There was only one choice. Knowing she might not have a chance to hit a ladies’ room inside, she bent back into the car, perching on the edge of the driver’s seat, her feet out on the blacktop. She cast one more look around, still seeing nobody.
Pulling the door close to her legs, she wriggled the hose off, contorting herself into a ladle shape to tug them out from under the long, slim skirt.
She took the panties, too.
Commando might be more of a Mad-Mari thing, but panty lines would be even more obnoxious without the hose to smooth things out. The skirt was long; she didn’t worry about flashing anyone.
She wadded up the ball of satin and nylon, stuffed it into the glove box, and stepped back out onto the blacktop seconds later. Runless. Wedgieless. Not to mention pantyless.
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
She yelped. Shocked by the intrusion of a deep voice, Marissa swung around, her heart thudding in her chest and her face going up in flames.
Outside the nearest building—a huge one with roll-up doors—stood a man. He watched her, a slight smile on his face. He hadn’t been there a few minutes ago when she’d pulled up, and she had to wonder when he’d appeared, and how much he’d seen.
You were hidden by the door, dummy. No way could he see you, especially below the waist.
Except, of course, her feet had been sticking out. And they’d been encircled by nylon and black satin for a couple of seconds. Oh, and there was the fact that she’d been fiddling with her underwear before clambering back into the car.
He knew. He had to know. She’d been busted like a kindergartener raiding the candy jar. Worse—picking her…seat.
Brazen it out.
Her chin went up and she pretended not to hear him. When she took a step away from the vehicle, he called out, “Uh, miss, seriously, you might want to rethink that.”
Grr. She’d already rethought it, especially with the hint of coolness in the spring air creeping up her thighs. And higher.
“That could get you into some trouble,” the man added.
Gritting her teeth, she said, “Oh, were you talking to me?”
The man, who wore faded mechanic’s coveralls, approached her, wiping his greasy hands on a towel. His expression was impassive, a friendly smile not indicating what he was thinking.
That was okay, Mari had enough thoughts for both of them.
She gawked, making a mental note with every step he took.
Step: Tall.
Step: Strong, with broad shoulders and thick arms straining against the faded fabric of his clothes.
Step: Lean-hipped and slim-waisted.
Step: Long, powerful legs that ate up the pavement.
Step: Great smile, broadening as he drew closer…and oh, a dimple in one cheek!
Step, step, step: Sexy, confident, gorgeous.
How incredibly embarrassing that he could be coming over to tell her he’d seen London and France when she’d done her front-seat striptease. Though, not as bad as it would be if he told her he’d seen the Netherlands.
She told herself to cool it. Maybe he just wanted to say hi. Or he could be coming over to tell her he’d heard the roughness of her car’s engine. Given the way he was dressed, and that he’d come out of a building that was obviously some kind of repair shop, she’d pegged him for a mechanic.
Maybe he needed to know the time. Or to tell her the whole place had been evacuated for a fire drill.
Say anything except I know you’re not wearing any panties.
Not only because it would be embarrassing if he confirmed he’d seen her, but because it was such a sleazy, slimy come-on. And she didn’t want to think this stranger—this very sexy man—had a sleazy bone in his body. That would probably break her long-single, brittle heart completely. Guys this handsome simply shouldn’t be allowed to be scumbags.
Reaching her, the man studied her from behind his sunglasses, which were necessitated by the bright sunshine that painted the tips of his light brown hair gold. She couldn’t help wondering what color his eyes were. Warm chocolate? Jade green? Something dazzling, she imagined. Because only a perfect set of eyes belonged in that face, with its high cheekbones, strong jutting jaw and broad, sensual mouth.
Masculine. That was the only word to describe him.
“Afternoon,” he said pleasantly, as if they’d just been introduced at a social event, as if he wasn’t standing there, thinking about her being pantyless.
Maybe he’s not.
Yeah. Right.
“Hello,” she mumbled.
He pushed the sunglasses up onto the top of his head with the tip of his finger. Oh, my. Not brown, not gold…something in-between. Like fine, clear amber. Absolutely beautiful.
“Wow,” she whispered.
He heard. Because now those eyes were twinkling. Definitely twinkling. She’d heard the expression, but always figured it for an exaggeration. It wasn’t. This guy had you-can-trust-me-I’m-adorable written on his very eyeballs.
“You look a little lost,” he said, that deep voice friendly, matching the twinkle and his small smile.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I can help. I know my way around.”
A quick glance at the stitching on his chest revealed the name of a popular auto-repair chain: Midas. They must make a lot of house calls to the academy if he was so familiar with it.
Funny that he worked for a company with a name that suited him so well, given those gold highlights in his hair. She only wondered if his big, powerful hands had the golden touch. And what lucky woman was on the receiving end of it.
One thing was sure, he was nothing like the men she usually associated with. There wasn’t a professor-ish feature on him. Probably in his early-to-mid-thirties, he was all man, not boyish, despite the twinkle and the dimples. He was rugged, not a smoothly put-together package like a slick high-rise, but a naturally spectacular formation like…the Grand Canyon.
Okay, that was a little overdone, but still, the guy was robbing her of coherent thought. She could only look at him for another long moment, pretending to consider his offer.
His cheeks were slightly stubbled, a faint smear of grease visible beside his strong nose. His skin was bronzed, his hands calloused, his muscles, she would bet, coming from hard work, not from a fitness club. And the mouth. Oh, did the man have a mouth—all soft, sensuous, smiling lips.
A shiver moved throughout her entire body, so delicate she almost didn’t notice. It took her a second to realize that shiver had been a pure, feminine response to him: attraction. Major attraction. She was no longer calculating how good-looking he was, her gears had shifted smoothly from assess to covet.
Stop it. It had been far too long since she’d been in a relationship if a guy who’d peeping-Tom’d her when she’d pulled off her underwear was giving her the shivers.
He didn’t peeping-Tom you…you Sharon Stone’d him!
She tried to pull her thoughts together, determined not to give him an opening to make a sleazy remark. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Well, you might not need any help, but I gotta say, you’re really tempting fate.”
Curious about why, but afraid of how he’d answer, she instead replied, “Thanks for your concern, but I’m not worried.”
“Rule-breaker, huh?”
“No.”
“Just like to live dangerously?”
Oh, hell. That cemented it, reminding her of why he’d come over here. He’d definitely seen her strip. “Not in the least.”
“Well, I’ll admit you don’t look the type.”
Her spine stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gesturing toward her hair, then her clothes, he said, “I mean, you look more like a schoolteacher than a rebel.”
That was a good thing. “That’s the plan,” she mumbled.
“You’re not really a teacher, are you?” he asked.
“Not yet.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, damn it.”
“You’re late.”
“How did you ever guess?” she asked, her tone dry.
There went the twinkle. And the dimple. And a broad, white grin. “’Cause you sped in here like demons were on your tail.”
At least he hadn’t said, Demons were on your naked tail.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I have an interview. It’s fifty minutes from now and they said to check in an hour early.”
He waved a hand, unconcerned. “They tell everyone that. But the place is nearly deserted. It won’t take you ten minutes to get the visitor’s pass, I promise. Don’t worry about it.”
“Still, I don’t want to risk it, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“So you’re worried about making a bad impression?”
Blowing out an impatient breath as he stopped her from turning away with just that amused tone in his voice, she admitted, “Yes, okay? Yes, I am.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not doing very well so far.” He pointed to a nearby building. “Personnel offices have a bird’s-eye view of this parking lot.”
Oh, great. Was he saying that he wasn’t the only one who had seen her doing her impromptu striptease? Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked up at the windows, then down at her car, trying to judge the angle. Geometry wasn’t her strongest suit, but it didn’t seem utterly impossible that somebody looking down might have seen as much as this guy had. Plus, she had a sunroof.
“This is bad,” she whispered.
“It’s okay, you can handle it. If anybody says anything, just tell them you were worried about making it on time.”
Gawking, she snapped, “Most people would be too polite to say anything.”
“What does politeness have to do with it?”
“A gentleman wouldn’t put me on the spot about this.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You mean I wasn’t being a gentleman? My mom’ll be crushed.”
If there had been any snarkiness in his voice, she might have been annoyed, but something about his charm was getting around her defenses. So far, he had been gentlemanly in trying to let her know he’d seen her stripping off her underclothes in broad daylight in a public parking lot.
“Look, I had a run,” she explained, her tone grudging.
He glanced down. “In those heels?”
“Down one whole leg.”
“I thought both legs were usually required for running.”
She managed not to groan, realizing he thought she’d gone for a run. “I had a run in my pantyhose, okay?”
His gaze remained downward, and his voice was the tiniest bit husky when he said, “No big loss. You definitely don’t need ’em. You have great legs.”
Her cheeks warmed. The way he said that indicated he was a leg man. That in itself was refreshing, as most men she knew professionally were interested only in her academic credentials. And the few she met when at a bar or a party were all focused on the two appendages sticking out the front of her body, not the two at the bottom. Hmm. Are breasts appendages?
“Thanks. But the point is, I’m late, I want to make a good impression and I didn’t have time to stop and buy hose.”
He finally got it. “Ahh. That’s why you did it?”
Wondering how pink her cheeks were, she mumbled, “Yes.”
Smiling, he replied, “Well, luckily, I was here to see.”
She gasped. Had he really just said that? Seriously, had he just admitted he’d been lucky enough to catch a crotch-shot from a complete stranger?
“Because, like I said, you really don’t have to sweat the time. So you can go ahead and take care of this.”
“Take care of it?” she asked. What? Did he think she was going to run back and magically produce new pantyhose from her purse, like a rabbit out of a hat, and put them on?
“Sure. Just get back in your car. I’ll help you out.”
Her jaw dropped open. “Uh…”
“I mean, if you need some directions, I can hop in the passenger seat and show you.”
Directions? She’d bet he knew a lot about women’s underwear and could give directions on how to get in—or out—of them.
The very thought of that reminded her again that she wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt; that cool spring breeze flitting up her legs now felt a bit warmer.
The man did put off some serious heat.
She suddenly acknowledged the second big danger of going commando—aside from possibly getting caught. Getting aroused.
No, not aroused. But aware. Very, very aware.
He gestured down at his clothes. “That is, if you don’t mind getting in close quarters with somebody so dirty.”
She gulped, more confused than ever. Was this guy intentionally playing word games? Was he propositioning her…or teasing her? Being flirtatious, or serious? Was she just being dirty-minded when thinking about how he’d said the word dirty?
“I’m not following,” she said.
Appearing sympathetic, he explained, “You look stressed and nervous. Let’s just get in the car and eliminate some of that tension before you go inside.”
Relieve her stress. Her tension.
There was one surefire way to do that. Hmm. Maybe that explained why she’d been stressed for thirteen months, two weeks and four days. Oh, and seven hours. But who was counting how long it had been since she’d been laid? Though, she supposed writing a dissertation had been pretty stressful, too. At least, that’s what the last guy she’d been involved with had thought. He’d stopped calling around the time she hit page one-twenty and officially lost her mind. Well, unofficially lost it—diagnosing yourself was a no-no in her line of work.
“Come on, let’s just do it. You’re running out of time, and you know you’ll feel better afterward.”
There. He’d stopped beating around the bush and suggested they do it. It, it. There had been no suggestive wag of the eyebrows, but what else could he mean? They’d moved beyond flirting and pantyhose. This complete stranger was proposing he help her relieve her tension by having sex in her car.
“It’ll just take a couple of minutes.”
If he did mean it it, she couldn’t help wondering why he’d brag about it being over so fast. But she didn’t wonder long; mainly she just felt disappointed. Yeah, she’d been distracted by his sexy wickedness for a moment or two. But now she could only feel punched in the gut by disappointment. He hadn’t gone for the cheap line right away, but he’d still managed to come up with a sleazy suggestion eventually.
He might look like a blue-collar Prince Charming, but he was just another guy playing a game of follow-the-leader with his own dick.
“I don’t think so. Heaven forbid it take longer than you think,” she said, keeping her chin up and her eyes narrowed.
Marissa turned to walk away, already wondering how long she’d be thinking about those twinkling amber eyes and that incredibly sexy smile. Would she stop wondering what it might be like to kiss those perfect lips with the words that had emerged from them ringing in her ear?
“Okay, it’s your wallet.”
She paused midstep, glancing back at him. “My wallet?”
“Sure. The towing charge is $250.00.”
Utterly confused, she turned around completely. “What on earth are you talking about?”
He pointed to a nearby sign. The one that said, “Employee Parking Only.” In the small print beneath were a few more words: “Violaters Will Be Towed At Owner’s Expense.”
“They’re real Nazis about it, even when the lot’s practically empty.”
Oh. My. God.
“Like I said, getting your car towed out of here during your interview wouldn’t make the best first impression. And I promise, you do have time to move it. This place is pretty dead. I really don’t mind escorting you to the closest public lot.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered. “You were talking about my car? About where I was parked?”
“Of course.” Then, suddenly realizing the same thing she had—that they’d been having two different conversations—the sexy guy quirked a brow and tilted his head.
“What, exactly, were you talking about?”

THE BLONDE WITH THE scraped-back hair, the uplifted chin and the irritated expression was looking at him like he’d sprouted a set of wings out of his back. And while Lieutenant Commander Danny Wilkes did love to fly, he really couldn’t manage it without the aid of an F/A-18 Hornet. Even the most experienced Naval Aviators couldn’t, as far as he knew.
She didn’t answer, merely staring at him with those huge blue eyes, framed with the thickest lashes he’d ever seen. They fluttered as she blinked rapidly, like she was confused, trying to think of what to say. Considering he suspected the two of them had been engaging in totally different conversations, he figured he’d give her a little time to get herself together.
Not physically, of course. Oh, she was already together in that regard.
Funny, ever since he’d caught sight of her a few minutes ago, he’d had the refrain from Van Halen’s Hot For Teacher going through his head. Even before she’d confirmed she was here to interview for a teaching position, she’d just come across as that cross of übersmart and supersexy. Like the fantasy ninth grade science teacher he’d never had.
He didn’t know about the übersmart yet—so far their brief interaction had been a little odd, and she hadn’t been at her conversational best.
But supersexy? Hell, yeah.
Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t imagine what the thick, ash-blond strands would look like falling in a curtain over her shoulders. He’d already noticed the deep blue eyes, but had put away any blue-eyed-blonde-bimbo associations the minute she’d lifted her chin and frowned at him.
There was something sharp about her—a little edgy. He hadn’t seen a single pouty look on her pretty face, nor one heavy-lidded, come-hither stare. And she hadn’t walked or stood in a way that emphasized her curves, sending silent signals every guy learned to recognize by the age of fourteen.
Those curves. Oh, he’d definitely noticed those. He couldn’t help but notice. He’d been openly admiring her slim calves while wondering about the long length of thigh he couldn’t see beneath her skirt.
The clothes might be perfectly respectable—demure, in fact, at least if you looked up the definition of skirt and blouse in the dictionary. But not the way she wore them. The way the skirt hugged every inch of curvy hip and perfect backside, and the afternoon breeze molded her silky blouse against her slim shoulders and full, pert-tipped breasts, made her outfit rank right up there with anything out of Frederick’s of Hollywood.
Sexy and prim, forward and flustered, unsure and determined. All in all, she was a contradictory puzzle—the most interesting one to cross his path in a very long time.
Right now, the only word to describe her was confused. The woman was staring at him, her eyes only slightly rounder than her mouth. It was as if he’d said something incomprehensible.
“Towed?”
He nodded, wondering if he should rethink that smart idea. She seemed to have trouble following a simple conversation. “Yeah. Towed. And then they ransom your car back to you for a ridiculous amount of money. They do it all the time. I think that’s how they’re going to fund the next generation of battleships.”
Her mouth snapped shut, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth for a second. She raised her hand to her face, covering her mouth. Then a sound emerged. A chuckle. Followed by another one. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and she slowly shook her head back and forth.
Danny’s own smile widened. They’d apparently been crossing signals and he trusted she’d soon let him in on the joke. He felt even more sure of that when she dropped her hand and her chuckles turned into snorts of laughter.
“I’m such an idiot.”
“You gonna tell me what we were really talking about?”
“Not on your life.”
Ooh. Interesting. Very interesting. He quickly ran over their conversation in his mind, trying to find anything outrageous, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t do it. He’d asked if she wanted to make a good impression and pointed out the window, she’d admitted she was in a hurry, he’d suggested she take a minute to move her car. What could be more innocent?
Except, the dirty part. But, she couldn’t have thought he meant…no. This teacher-type wouldn’t mentally go there.
Her eyes were now damp with what looked like tears of laughter. Her expression had gone from amused to embarrassed.
Okay. Maybe she had gone there.
“Did you think I was propositioning you? That I wanted to get you in your car to…”
Looking almost sheepish, she slowly nodded.
“Wow,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been told I sometimes move a little fast. But believe me, I do not usually meet a woman, and, five minutes later, tell her she oughta do me in the backseat of her car.”
Another grin. “Your mom definitely wouldn’t think you were gentlemanly if you did that.”
“My dad would be the one who’d whack me one if I ever did such a thing. And my baby sister would kick my ass.”
Her chuckles finally died, though her smile remained. That smile made her look younger, softer. Made her blue eyes gleam in the bright sunlight. Her tension had eased somewhat, so that she didn’t appear as rigid, and a few years had fallen off her face without that frown and pointy chin-lift thing.
“I’d love to stay and apologize for casting aspersions on your character. But I do need to get to my interview.”
He nodded. “I understand. Just move your car. Fast.”
“Done.” She turned to walk back to her car, pausing once to glance back at him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Then, a spontaneous urge made him add, “Maybe I’ll see you when you’re finished.”
She stopped and turned around, looking…interested.
Interesting.
“You’ll be working all afternoon?”
He gestured toward the shop. “Lately it seems like I never get out of here. Some of these officers can man a billion-dollar nuclear submarine but don’t know how to drain the transmission fluid out of a Chevy.”
She nodded once, slowly. “Okay then. Maybe I’ll see you.”
If he had his way, she most definitely would. In fact, he might just have to make sure of it. Though it didn’t need it, maybe he’d pop the hood on his much-babied ’67 Impala and give her another oil change. A lengthy one.
He wanted to see this woman again. He didn’t know her name—God, how could he not have gotten her name?—but he definitely wanted to learn it.
As she got in the car, he almost yelled to ask what he should call her if they happened to bump into each other again. But it seemed a little too pushy. If he was meant to know it, he’d know it. If he was meant to see her again, he’d see her again…oil change or no oil change.
Danny was a big believer in fate. That John Cusack movie, Serendipity, was a major chick flick and he’d pretended to gag his way through it when his sister had made him watch it once. But deep down, he kind of liked the idea.
He wasn’t a very spiritual guy, but he did believe in things like karma and putting out good thoughts and getting them back in return. What goes around, comes around, that kind of stuff. Call it fate, or destiny, whatever.
Things happened for a reason. People came in and out of your life because they were meant to. And if the beautiful blonde was meant to come back into his, she would.
He stood by the motor pool, watching as she got into her little sedan, prepared to wave as she drove by. But a minute went by, and then another, and she didn’t move.
It appeared she wasn’t leaving his life quite as quickly as he’d thought.
Her door opened. One beautiful leg appeared, then she stepped out and turned to face him.
“My car won’t start.”
Danny lifted his eyes toward the sky and smiled.
Serendipity.

2
Saturday, 5/7/11, 02:40 p.m.
www.mad-mari.com/2011/05/07/quickone
Just checking in between interviews on my phone. I was so busy last night getting ready for 2day that I forgot to put up my usual “Saturday Sinners” post.
Newbies—every Sat I talk about somebody who has been very bad this week. Last Sat was about that jerk whose wife found a YouTube vid of him marrying another woman…without getting a divorce first. “Sunday Saints” is about someone very good.
I guess I’m the sinner today ‘cause I forgot to blog.;-)
Anyway, how about you guys take the floor? Say h’lo to each other. I’ll check in when I get home. L8er—
Mari

MARISSA WAS HALFWAY THROUGH her meeting with a woman from Human Resources, feeling confident she’d rocked the interview with the Deputy to the Commandant, when she remembered her underpants.
Oh, not that she wasn’t wearing them. That was impossible to forget. She’d picked a hell of a first time to go commando.
No, she didn’t have to worry about panty lines, but there were definitely other distractions. Like getting used to, uh, everything being exposed to any random updraft.
So, no, she hadn’t forgotten for one minute that she was pantyless beneath her skirt. But she had forgotten—however briefly—what she’d done with those panties. When the woman interviewing her made a comment about a white-glove ceremony, it popped into her mind that she’d left her silky black undergarment, along with her pantyhose, in her car’s glove box.
And an adorably sexy, very nice mechanic was right now working on her car, having insisted he didn’t mind trying to find out what was wrong with it while she was at her interview.
And in order to check out what was wrong with the car, he might need to get the owner’s manual.
And while reaching into that glove box for that manual, he might just grab a fistful of recently worn lingerie.
Oh, God.
Under normal circumstances, a superhot, sexy dude touching her underwear might give her a little thrill. Normal circumstances being if said underwear happened to be on her person at the time.
But superhot, sexy dude finding them balled up in her car, and wondering what the hell kind of psycho takes off her underwear right before an important job interview?
Uh, yeah. Not so much.
“You are so screwed,” she muttered with a groan.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” asked the woman.
Things just go from bad to worse.
Fortunately, her interviewer was distracted, flipping through a file, and had barely glanced up. Yanking her thoughts together, Marissa stammered, “Uh, you’re so…shrewd. I mean, the way you have everything organized.” Forcing a laugh, she added, “My home office is a mess, I can never find anything.”
“I see.”
The woman offered her a tight smile. It could have been genuine, or it could have been her way of humoring Mari while she figured out a way to make sure the crazy blonde who talked to herself in the middle of a meeting didn’t get hired. The woman probably already disliked her because she had to work on a Saturday, the Deputy to the Commandant being too busy with end-of-the-year activities to schedule a weekday interview.
Sighing deeply, Mari said, “Forgive me, I’m a little nervous. I’m mumbling.”
The woman’s face softened. “It’s okay.” Lowering her voice and leaning closer, she added, “And don’t worry—you’re not screwed. In fact, I think you did very well.”
Oh, Lord. Definitely bad to worse. “I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t worry about it. Believe me, I work around a bunch of sailors all the time. The language can be…salty.”
The ice broken, they spent the next half hour talking about the job, which Marissa wanted more than ever. At first, it had just been about employment—getting paid to do something other than peddling overpriced shoes at a Harbor Place boutique so she could pay the bills. Now that she’d come here and learned more about the guest lecturer position—what she’d be doing, who she’d be talking to, why she was needed—she knew she wanted it. Badly.
As someone who’d had to play mom for her younger siblings from the age of fourteen, Marissa knew she was good with teens and young adults. She could relate to them—maybe because she’d still been a kid herself when she’d been thrust into such an adult role.
She could manage both mindsets. Could dish with her eighteen-year-old sister about some hot guy she’d met in Bio 101, but also put on the cautionary Mom hat and remind her that college was about learning, not about guys.
She could support her twenty-one-year-old brother when he decided to go to art school rather than finish college, and also worry about how he was going to support himself drawing comic books.
And as for her twenty-six-year-old brother, well, hers would be the shoulder he would lean on when he finally decided to come out to their incredibly old-fashioned, rigid father…who so wasn’t equipped to deal with having a gay son.
Yes, she was definitely part old soul, part young adult, and had been for fifteen years. So she had the right background to deal with college kids.
Plus, she’d grown up in the military. She’d been a victim of one of its most common negative side effects—spouses unable to deal with it, families wrecked because of it. Kids raised by distant, rigid, militaristic parents. She knew what happened to the children of weak mothers who couldn’t cope and cheating fathers who couldn’t love.
“The Deputy to the Commandant told you why some midshipmen will be returning here before the official start of the summer semester?” asked the interviewer.
Mari nodded. “He said they are faced with washing out.”
“Yes. Some should, either for academic reasons or lack of seriousness about their decision to attend.”
“I’m sure there are some who apply for the wrong reasons.”
“Exactly. Others, though, might succeed, but they’re unsure about whether they can live a military life, or have unrealistic expectations about what that life entails.”
“Hence the need for a reality check.”
“Exactly.”
Bringing in guests to talk to these young men and women on their own terms, about real-life issues they faced—outside the day-to-day of the military—seemed like a very good idea. One guest speaker was an accountant who would be showing them what their financial futures might look like. Another was a diplomat who’d be talking about the big world picture.
And if she got the job, Mari—Dr. Marissa Marshall, who wrote a dissertation on the effect of the military on relationships and families—would be discussing their personal lives. Dating, marriage, children. Confusion over gender roles and the trouble sexism can bring into a household. The costs, the sacrifices, the potential pitfalls.
It made sense. A lot of sense. She only hoped the deputy agreed she was the right person for the job, and that he wasn’t too worried about her age, which he’d mentioned a couple of times during their meeting.
After a few more minutes of conversation, Marissa finished in Personnel and headed out of the building, toward the parking lot. Her thoughts were in a jumble. pImages** of a good job—doing good things for students in need of support—mixed with the picture of a stranger with her underwear in his hand.
His big, strong, powerful hand. Hmm.
But when she arrived at the parking lot, seeing the empty spot where her car had been parked, she began to imagine another scenario. Her, on the phone, reporting her car stolen.
Because it wasn’t in the parking lot.
God, had she really been so flustered, so worried about the time and her stupid freaking underwear, that she’d handed over her keys to a complete stranger? Where on earth was the smart, sensible Marissa, or even the suspicions, skeptical Mari?
“Hey, there, how’d it go?”
Relief washed over her as she heard a voice calling from the open bay of the garage building. The handsome Midas man emerged from the shadowy interior, still dressed in his mechanic’s coveralls.
“Pretty well,” she admitted, approaching him slowly. Then, not about to ask if he’d looked in the glove box, she added, “I guess you were able to get my car started?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing into the shadowy recesses of the garage. “Jumped it and drove it in here so I could work on it. Not a big deal, your battery was dead as a doornail. I ran out and picked one up and popped it in.”
Eyes widening, she replied, “Seriously?”
“Yep. I also changed the oil while I was at it.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Speaking of which, you do know motor oil’s supposed to be a liquid, right? The stuff that came outta there was the color and the consistency of tar. When’s the last time you had it changed?”
She’d been meaning to do that for a good year. Or two.
“I guess I forgot. Sorry.”
“Don’t tell me, tell her.”
She lifted a confused brow. “Her?”
He gestured toward her car again. “She’ll get even with you if you neglect her. Why do you think she was rattling like a bag of bones?”
He sounded like he was talking about a loved one. “I take it you like cars.”
“They do call me the Midas man,” he said, tapping the letters stitched on his chest.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“But to answer your question, I sort of like cars. Maybe about as much as Winnie-the-Pooh likes honey.”
The very idea of this big, rugged man knowing who Winnie-the-Pooh was made her chuckle. And the fact that he’d actually admitted it? Even more noteworthy. Most guys would be too worried about being considered wusses to dare say such a thing.
“Fortunately, cars can be obtained without having to climb trees or fight off bees,” she countered.
“What’s the matter,” he asked with a grin, “your grocery store doesn’t carry Sue-Bee?”
She chuckled again, liking him more with every passing minute. She liked his wit, liked his smile. Adored those dimples. “So, how much do I owe you?” she asked, shaking off the mental lapse into la-la-lust land.
“Not much,” he told her, naming a figure.
He was right. It wasn’t much. In fact, it sounded far too low for an auto repair. “Wait, that’s just for the parts. What about the labor charges?”
He waved a hand. “It was a twenty-minute job. Piece of cake.”
“I couldn’t…”
“Sure you could. Let’s call it Be Kind To Others Day.”
What a nice sentiment, especially coming from such a strong, young man. He had surprised her again, revealing a depth of warmth and kindness she didn’t usually encounter in men she met. It seemed out-of-place with his raw, masculine good looks and his career.
“The next time you have the chance to do a simple, twenty-minute favor to help out a stranger, go for it and think of me,” he added.
Uh, interesting way to put it. Going for it while thinking of him…that might not be very difficult. But there they were again, back to quibbling about those its.
She could do as he asked—pay it forward—and she would. But she had another idea, too. She cast a quick look at the ring finger on his left hand, not seeing a band of gold. Though a mechanic might take a wedding ring off when working, she didn’t see any distinctive tan line, either. So she hoped she was right in deducing he wasn’t married. Whether he was unattached, she couldn’t know. But it was worth finding out.
Mari hadn’t been out with a man in a long time. It had been even longer since she’d actually been the one to ask for a date.
It’s not a date. It’s a thank-you.
Right. It was the least she could do. What anyone would do.
Would you do it if he was seventy, with a long, greasy gray ponytail, a hairy back and tattoos?
She told that little voice in her head to shut the hell up, then took a deep breath. Hoping she hadn’t misread interest when he was just being a nice guy who treated every woman like she was something special, she said, “You’ve got a deal. But can I also buy you a late lunch or an early dinner as a thank-you?”
She held herself rigid, waiting for his answer.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Not exactly a refusal. But not a yes, either.
“Here’s another idea,” he said. “How about you spring for a couple of burgers and come with me to the marina? We can take my boat out and watch the sunset over the water.”
Oh, wow. That definitely sounded more like a date than a thank-you. A very intimate, romantic kind of date, which was crazy since she didn’t even know this guy.
Don’t be stupid. Women go on blind dates all the time with men they’ve never met.
But in a boat, far from land? How crazy was that? What if he turned out to be some Freddy Krueger type? Her plastic-wrapped body parts might wash ashore all up and down the eastern seaboard. What if they never found her head?
He held up a hand, palm out. “Wait, scratch that. You don’t even know me—I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. You’re probably worrying I’m going to kidnap you or something.” Or something.
She didn’t say anything. Not a word. Especially not about her fear that they wouldn’t find her head.
“But lunch would be great, thanks. I’m glad you asked.”
“You wanted me to?”
“If you hadn’t, I would have. Believe me, I wasn’t going to let you leave without at least getting your name.”
“It’s Mari…Marissa.” She extended her hand in greeting.
“Mari,” he said, zoning in on her nickname, as though he’d immediately decided it suited her better than her formal one. It was like he could see past the rigid hairstyle and the plain clothes and the reason she was here and already knew the more free-spirited woman who lay beneath all that. “Nice to meet you, Mari. I’m Danny.”
He took her hand in his larger one, and she forgot to breathe for a second, wondering why such a simple touch made her shiver. His skin was warm, his grip firm, the fingers strong and the palm rough. And he didn’t let go right away, hesitating for the briefest moment, as if he, too, were savoring the first connection of skin-on-skin.
Their stares met. He’d pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and the late afternoon sunshine brought a brilliant gleam to those amber eyes. The gentle smile of pleasure on his face told her so many things—that he was glad to have met her, that he had wanted to ask her out, that he did look forward to getting to know her.
That he was interested. Maybe even as interested as she was. And she, being totally honest with herself, was very interested. More interested in him than she’d been in any man for a very long time.
They might have nothing in common, might not know each other, but they definitely had sparks. Electricity. Plus he was kind, thoughtful…and sexy as hell. Anyone with a fully functioning vagina would be interested.
Finally releasing her hand, he said, “Can I admit I was grateful for your dead battery?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It saved me from having to dump a box of nails in the parking lot, hoping you’d run over them and flatten a tire, so I’d have to help you out.”
She laughed softly, liking that he’d been so serious about seeing her again…even if his methods sounded a little outrageous. Then again, it wasn’t like he’d acted on them.
“Mental note. Potential stalker,” she said, her tone wry.
“I just know a good thing when I see it.” He lowered his voice to add, “You’re somebody I want to get to know better.”
“Why? Because I’m nervy enough to park illegally at a naval academy?”
“Well, yeah,” he said, his mouth quirking higher on one side. That twinkle reappeared and he seemed wickedly amused as he added, “Plus, I just have to know more about a girl who takes off her underwear and leaves them in her car right before a big job interview.”

DANNY PROBABLY SHOULDN’T have said anything about finding Mari’s undergarments in her glove compartment. He’d caught her off guard, and the gentleman he’d claimed to be definitely wouldn’t have brought it up. He could easily have pretended he had never seen a thing, saving both of them from embarrassment.
But Danny was ungentlemanly enough that he couldn’t help it. Mari was just too sexy to resist, and too contradictory not to try to figure out.
He couldn’t deny he’d been very curious about her even before he’d found the wadded-up ball of fabric in her car. And once he had? Whoa. Reaching in for the manual to check the engine specs and winding up with his hand covered in soft, silky, woman-scented material had been a delightful shock. He’d already been sure he wanted to get to know her better. That surprising discovery had changed the very meaning of the word know to a much more carnal variation.
It hadn’t taken a lot of imagination to put everything together and figure out what she’d done. There’d been their previous conversation, her nervousness, the way she’d been fiddling around in her car when he’d first come out to warn her away from the Employees Only parking lot.
He had to admit, he hadn’t been sure how she would react when he told her she’d been busted. But she hadn’t slapped his face or stalked away or cussed him out.
She’d groaned once. Her pretty face had turned a little bit pink. Then she’d burst into laughter, as if she couldn’t hold it in anymore. Even now, several seconds later, unrestrained giggles erupted from her lips as she tried to explain.
“You…aren’t supposed to know that!”
He wagged his eyebrows. “I didn’t, not 100%. Not until you just confirmed it, anyway.”
She slapped her palm against her forehead. “I can’t believe I fell for it. I should have pretended I had no idea what you were talking about.”
“That might have worked, but, uh, I was pretty sure. Now, fess up…is that what we were really talking about earlier?”
“’Fraid so.”
Remembering everything he’d said before, he added, “So you thought I was offering to get in your car and, what, give you directions on how to pull up your own underwear?”
“Something like that.”
He snorted. “The day I need to use a line like that is the day I trade in my single-man-on-the-prowl club card.”
Her smile might have faded the tiniest bit. “Are you?”
“Am I what? Single?”
“And on the prowl?”
Knowing she was questioning her own instincts, wondering if he was some kind of sleazy on-the-make playboy, he answered her truthfully. “Yes and no. I’m single, but I haven’t been accused of prowling since I was ten and played my last game of Ding-Dong-Dash at old Mrs. McCurdy’s house.”
“Ding-Dong…”
“You know. Ring the doorbell and run? Didn’t you ever play that as a kid?”
She shuddered. “I grew up on military bases. No doorbells. And not much of a sense of humor from most of the guys who lived behind those doors.”
“Yeah, well, old Mrs. McCurdy didn’t laugh much, either.”
One corner of her mouth went up. “You got caught?”
“Uh-huh. She was pretty spry for being on the verge of mummification.”
Tsking, she shook her head. “Couldn’t outrun an old lady. Bet your friends didn’t let you live that one down.”
“Nope, even though they all bailed on me when she grabbed me by the back of the shirt and dragged me into the house so she could call my parents.”
“Uh-oh. Sounds like the opening of a horror movie on the Chiller channel.”
“Just about. Get this, while we waited for my folks to show up, she made me look at her poor, swollen feet to show me how horrible I’d been to make her get up to answer the door.”
“Eww!”
“Tell me about it. Old lady feet—is there anything worse to a ten-year-old boy?”
“Bet you never rang any doorbells and ran again,” she quipped.
He held his fingers up in a Scout’s promise. “Not once.”
“She sounds like a smart old lady.”
His lips quirked. “She was. I felt so guilty afterward I always brought her paper up onto her porch instead of tossing it into the driveway.” Then he added, “And she definitely taught me a lesson.”
“About ringing doorbells?”
“About feet. If you ever need something to kill a fleeting moment of happiness, or a glimmer of sexual interest? Just think of old feet.”
“Noted. But for the record, I happen to have great feet and I don’t intend to let that change.” Her smile was bright and comfortable, as if she’d finally let down all guard, and was being completely herself for the first time since they’d met.
“Great feet, huh? Most people wouldn’t claim that.”
She shrugged. “Don’t ask what I think about my goofy-looking ears or my thin, flat hair, but I have supreme confidence in my feet. Even pedicurists compliment them.”
He glanced down at the sexy, spike-heeled pumps. He’d like to pull them off and closely examine those feet. Then work his way up. Inch by devastating inch.
He already knew he’d have to add her calves to the list of fabulous body parts. And he suspected if he kept going up those legs, he’d find quite a few more.
Danny shook his head, hard. Jesus, this woman was turning him into some kind of hound dog. He never started immediately thinking about how sexy a woman was right after meeting her. If she was attractive? Sure. Smart? Yeah. But downright I-think-I’ll-die-if-I-can’t-go-to-bed-with-you-soon thoughts? Uh-uh.
He knew why. It wasn’t just how attractive she was—he’d met plenty of attractive women. It was because of the sharp bolt of utter, mouth-watering want that had roared through him when he’d stuck his hand in her glove compartment and found himself wrist-deep in sexy, feminine undergarments. The flood of pImages** that had gone through his brain, the sweet scent lingering in the air, the silky feel against his skin. All that had combined to put him on red alert.
Even changing her car’s battery and checking her oil had done nothing to cool him down. Because he’d thought about nothing but charging her battery and slickening up her engine.
“I might not ever be in line to model Dior in Paris, but I bet I could sell a lot of Dr. Scholl’s at Target. So you might just be in luck when it comes to my old lady feet,” she said with a laugh. “I might even be able to pull off flip-flops at seventy and not make you want to hurl.”
Her words brought an image to his mind—him still knowing her, all those years in the future. And for some reason, Danny didn’t laugh with her.
Maybe it was that crazy karma thing—fate, serendipity. Whatever the reason, despite being a thirty-three-year-old bachelor, he suddenly found the idea of being with someone for that long, knowing someone that intimately, a little appealing.
Oh, it had always appealed to him when he thought of his parents and grandparents, all of whom were alive and happy back in Chicago. But he hadn’t really given much thought to it for himself. He’d been focused on so many other things.
First, of course, on flight. That he’d focused on from the age of five when his mechanic father had first taken him to a field beneath a landing flight path at O’Hare and he’d felt the power of a 747 shaking his small body like an earthquake.
Then, during a family trip to Disney World, he’d gotten his dad to take him over to Kennedy to watch a shuttle launch. And he’d suddenly begun to dream about another kind of flight altogether.
Everything he’d done since that point had been with an eye toward space.
He knew it would take years—and he’d planned his route carefully, knowing how most astronauts made their way into the manned space flight program. He’d listed his goals—air flight, navy, NASA—and pursued them with diligence from the time he hit high school, making sure he got the grades to get into Annapolis. Succeeding at this very academy had been key. Not just for everything that would come later, but also to justify the expense and sacrifices his family had made to get him here.
Then, on to the navy. He’d finished at the Academy, gone to Pensacola, then to Whiting.
Then to Afghanistan.
And there, everything had sort of fallen apart.
Not anymore. Now he was back on track. Back on schedule.
So why the hell was he suddenly thinking about what it might be like to grow old with someone, when his focus should be entirely on awaiting word on his application to the Astronaut Candidate Training Program?
“Anyway, back to my little wardrobe malfunction,” she said, apparently not having noticed his distraction. “I had a run in my hose, and…”
“You panicked.”
“Exactly.”
Part of him was tempted to ask her if she’d had a run in her sexy black panties, too, but he figured that might be pushing his luck.
Besides, he didn’t want to think about her sexy black panties any more than he had to. He especially didn’t want to think about the fact that she wasn’t wearing them right now. That just wasn’t good for his sanity.
But it was tough to turn off the mental pImages**, knowing she wasn’t wearing a thing beneath that sinfully tight skirt. Under that simple black fabric was soft skin, curves and hollows and everything deliciously female.
You’re an officer and a gentleman. An officer and a gentleman.
“So I made a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
“Sure, I get that,” he said, pulling his mind out of his own pants. “I mean, I once spilled tomato juice on my dress whites and had to go on duty in my skivvies.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ha-ha.”
“Look at it this way—I bet your, uh, state of undress provided a distraction from the interview, so maybe it made you a little less nervous.”
“Are you kidding? I remembered they were in the glove box halfway through my second meeting, and immediately panicked, thinking you might find them.”
“Well, I did,” he admitted. “But trust me, I’m not some perv. They’re not hanging from my rearview mirror or anything. I put them right back where I found them. In case you, uh…have need of them.”
“Believe me, I usually do.” She sighed heavily. “I know you won’t get this—no guy would—but I just couldn’t deal with a bunch of he-man jerks staring at my butt today.”
He’d been staring at her butt today. But he didn’t think it wise to point that out. And he wasn’t a he-man. Plus, he wasn’t entirely sure what going bare-ass naked beneath her skirt had to do with it. Men stared. Period.
“And panty lines would have just begged to be stared at,” she continued, quickly explaining her thinking on the whole nylons-smoothing-things-out theory.
Which, frankly, was just bullshit. Men definitely didn’t need panty lines acting as little arrows to guide the eye to the perfect female posterior. Maybe other chicks would notice and care. If he did see them, a guy wouldn’t be thinking about anything except pulling those elastic panty lines down. Preferably with his teeth.
“I’m afraid ass-appreciation is just part of our genetic code,” he admitted. “Like flicking other naked guys with towels in the locker room, and our inability to ask for directions when we’re lost.”
“Yeah, what’s with that?”
He shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”
“And one I’m not sure I want to solve.”
“Some things you’re better off not knowing.”
“Like men shouldn’t really want to understand why women go to the bathroom together?”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It’s all prearranged, right? So you can compare notes on the guys you’re with, and escape together out the window if they suck, right?”
“Busted.”
Nodding, he said, “So I guess that means you’re in trouble today, since you’re flying without a wingman when we go out for lunch.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming in anticipation. “You mean on your boat?”
Growing still, Danny eyed her steadily, liking the idea, but also knowing she’d hesitated earlier because she’d been unsure. “We don’t have to.”
She glanced outside at the beautiful late afternoon sky. “I’d love to.” Then she looked down at herself and sighed. “But unfortunately, I’m not exactly dressed for it. My only spare clothes are, well, you know…”
Yeah. He knew. Her spare clothes were in her glove compartment and just the thought of her in nothing but them was enough to send an extra pint of blood toward his cock. Of course, knowing she was currently without them was doing a damn fine job of that already.
“How about this,” he said, “it’s only three-thirty, hours until sunset. You go to the nearest store and grab a cheap pair of jeans, I’ll go take a shower. We can meet again at that Irish pub on West Street in exactly forty-five minutes. We’ll get to know each other. Then, if you’d like, we’ll go to the marina and take the boat out for a little while.”
She nibbled her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re sure? I mean, you didn’t rescind your invitation earlier because you’d changed your mind and don’t want to, right? Did I back you into a corner on this?”
He held his arms up, gesturing to the wide-open space of the garage bay that surrounded them. “No corners. No arm-twisting.” Then, stepping closer—close enough that his boot-covered feet nearly touched the pointy tips of her sexy shoes, hiding what were rumored to be magnificent feet, he added, “Let’s just go for it and see what happens, okay?”
“There’s that it again,” she mumbled.
“What?”
Shaking her head, she stared up at him, those big blue eyes softening. Her lips parted and she drew a slow, audible breath over them, as if she realized he was talking about going for a lot more than lunch.
He didn’t mean sex. At least, not right away. What he wanted to go for was a chance. Just an opportunity.
They’d clicked on sight. Now he wanted to know if that click could ignite something even more than a spark of sexual attraction.
A kiss would be a good start. One slow, deep, wet kiss, just to see what happened.
He wanted that—at least that—before this day was out. And if the kiss was as good as he suspected it could be, well, then they’d just have to see what happened.
“Okay,” she finally said. “I think we’ve got a date.”

3
Saturday, 5/7/10, 03:45 p.m.
www.mad-mari.com/2011/05/07/quickone
Comment #21
Mari here, checking in again. Yay for the iPhone!
Glad you’re chatting w/out me. Yeah, I agree with all of you that the businessman from last Sat was not only a scum-bucket for committing bigamy, but was also trés stupid to let somebody videotape his crime. And Jan from Chicago—lol on, “Would rather see the video of wife #1 beating the crap out of him when she found out.” You & me both, sister!
Can’t stay longer; there’ve been some interesting developments today. Real quick, tho, let me just say, the interviews went great. I think I might actually get the gig.
And after the interview, something else happened. Something…surprising. Remember that sea of testosterone I said I was diving into? Well, I think I have come face-to-face with the great white. Let’s hope he doesn’t eat me up.;-)
Bye!

MARI HAD NO TROUBLE FINDING the small, downtown pub, which Danny said had an outside patio on which they could enjoy the warmth of the afternoon. And true to his word, he showed up exactly forty-five minutes later, his golden-brown hair still damp from his shower and his face clean-shaven. Marissa saw him arrive, and had to stand in the restaurant vestibule, watching him out the front window for a few moments. Because, oh, God, was he nice to look at.
She’d known he was good-looking, had recognized that immediately. But he cleaned up utterly gorgeous. Trafficstoppingly, heart-poundingly, panty-dampeningly—and she was wearing panties now—gorgeous.
Then there was the body. Wow.
That deserved a repeat: Wow.
Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, without the loose-fitting work clothes covering him up from neck to ankle, his entire rock-hard form was on perfect masculine display. And mercy, could the man do things for some Levi’s and oh, did his shoulders ever stretch out endlessly under that gray cotton.
Aside from the broad shoulders, he was also lean-waisted, slim-hipped, long-legged. Built like he’d been molded out of clay by an artist trying to depict the perfect male form.
Why in the name of God is he going out with you?
She wasn’t being overly modest or highly critical of her own appeal. In fact, Marissa knew she was somewhat attractive.
Not beautiful, by any means. Not with her funky ears and her too-thin hair—which looked particularly lank now that she’d taken it out of that bun and left it hanging loose. Then there was the hint of a belly she could never totally flatten, no matter how many death-by-sit-up sessions she endured at the gym.
She’d cop to nice-looking, maybe a little sexy—she did have good legs and perky boobs that didn’t even need a Wonderbra—but she wasn’t drop-dead stunning. She might turn a few heads but no way would she ever cause gawking guys to step into traffic or obsessed secret admirers to send sky-banners into the air proclaiming her hotness.
So why on earth would this hunky guy want to be with her? Unless, of course, he’d been telling the truth—that he just wanted to get to know the girl who’d ditched her underwear.
That spoke of someone with a sense of humor. Someone who was interested in more than just physical appearance, and actually cared about personality. Someone she could like. A lot.
But oh, did she ever hope there was some lust there, too.
“Hi, see you found it,” he said as he entered the Irish restaurant he’d sent her to, a cute place that was more trendy than publike. He smelled clean and fresh and spicy, his subtle aftershave making her think of all good things male. “And I see you found something else to wear?”
She glanced down at her new clothes. In popular Annapolis, it hadn’t taken her more than a half hour to find a shop and grab a pair of casual pants and a lightweight sweater, and not break her bank doing it. She’d changed into the outfit in the restaurant’s ladies’ room. She’d put her underwear back on, too. The pants fit fine…no panty lines.

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