From Max’s position on the deck, he had a perfect view outside the door. The sight below them chilled his blood. His arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as he lifted it enough to get Dragon’s attention. Dragon looked down to see what Max needed, and he weakly pointed out the open door. Dragon’s eyes widened, then hurriedly clicked his mic.
“Make another pass over this area,” he instructed the pilot. “Fast Lane!” Dragon called, pointing to the ground below. “It’s the O-course,” Dragon’s tone saying it all.
There was no doubt about it. These guys had been training men to qualify to enter BUD/S training and insert themselves into Special Forces. Oh, hell no. That wasn’t going to happen on Max’s watch.
Motel, Coronado, California
Shea woke at first dawn the next morning, a cold wash of dread snaking through her. She’d done something immensely stupid.
She opened her eyes to find him.
The beautiful boy from last night lying next to her.
Oh, fuck her for being a complete idiot.
This was such a no-no. She was undercover. She had a job to do and that didn’t include looking down his hard body to his morning wood with that rigid and tantalizing appendage.
But it wasn’t just about the job, about being an NCIS agent, about being undercover. This was personal. NCIS didn’t know all her secrets or why she needed access to databases and intel. Rebecca Lawrence didn’t know her. No one did. She’d already been through the most heartbreaking experience of her life.
Shea carried the pain with her everyday but kept her emotions on a short leash. She didn’t need people asking questions. The moment her hunt ended, she’d let go of that leash and rain fire and hell down on the man who had betrayed her in the worse way.
Rogue.
It wasn’t just a definition. It was who she was.
Sentiment hadn’t been part of her life for a long time now. There was only darkness in her heart, and it was reserved for one man who was eventually going to be at the business end of her gun. Keep thinking you’re safe, she thought. Keep on believing I won’t get what I need to make you pay, you bastard.
But taking another look at the man in the bed only made her chest tighten until she had to take a deep breath. The dark angel in her, the hunter in her had responded to the sheer fire in his eyes when he’d met her gaze at the door to that club.
He was golden in the light, golden hair, golden skin, golden stubble, gold in those sky-blue eyes.
His exquisite beauty was heightened by the way he moved—definitely someone like her, a warrior, something lethal behind the handsome, innocent mask he showed the world. He’d backed that bruiser in the bar down like a junkyard dog against a Rottweiler. The guy easily had fifty pounds on this man, but when that bruiser had looked in his eyes, into that silent, deadly, “Don’t fuck with me” message, he’d seen all the shades of lethal.
This man’s face was rugged, his body chiseled, his skin burnished by the fingers of sunlight that worked its way through the cracks in the blinds, falling on one gorgeously ripped body, contoured with layers of ironbound muscle.
Touching him, sliding her fingers across his skin was heaven. She flexed her hand over his heart and felt the deep, strong rhythm resonate through her palm and skate across an already deeply embedded awareness. How was it possible that he had given her more than pleasure?
This man made her feel that odd sense of security. It didn’t make sense, but her instincts told her it was true. For a woman who didn’t trust love or men at all, this was jarring.
They’d made love in an out-of-control, over-the-edge way that had sent her someplace she’d never been before, into rapture—utter, unequivocal rapture—and nothing had ever felt more right, safer. There was that word again.
Sadness enveloped her as she sat up on the bed and started to reach for her clothes. This would be a moment, like a flower under glass, that she could remember in the long, lonely moments stretching ahead of her.
She didn’t want this to be a one-night stand, but by all rights of definition, she was and it was. She would never see him again, and that’s exactly as it should be. She would sacrifice anything for what she had to do.
Anything…
She found her dress, panties and boots, slipping them all on, zipping up the back. Her jacket was in a heap by the door, tangled with his, and as she bent to pick it up, the scent of him hit her like a freight train.
She felt the impact in the same places she’d felt all the others, in her throat and upper chest—a pure lung reaction as he took her breath away. It was ridiculous. She was too old for this, too jaded. She’d been with men before and never had a man gotten her so hot, from zero to sixty with just a look. Nothing short of a complete and utter wreck.
Everything since she’d slammed her gaze into his had been hot, and wild, and edging on frantic, as if she’d just located something that made her…complete. Losing her mind and sinking down into crazytown with a big ole’ heaping side of meltdown.
She’d gotten so tangled up in him, his big, strong hands, his scent, his body, his skin and his mouth…on her everywhere.
Everywhere.
Her hand slipped off the doorknob, her palm sweaty. She glanced at him again—and got hit hard by the memory of last night one more time, except this impact was closer to her solar plexus, and way lower down. She leaned against the door, overcome by a craving so intense, it took all her willpower to turn and open the door.
About two more minutes and he’d be firmly relegated to memory, the whole thing behind her. She took a breath, calm, easy.
Regret wormed its way through her as she softly closed the door. She headed for the sidewalk and kept walking.
3
Hemingway opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the rumpled sheets of where “The Babe” had slept. He remembered her body beneath his, the feel of her satiny skin, the sounds she made when he was deep inside her.
If his dick hadn’t already been hard, it would be now for sure. Disappointment washed through him as he pushed up in bed, noting that the room was empty. He had no intention of getting involved, especially not now. He needed his full focus to be on BUD/S and the next eighteen months of training. But right at this moment, the thought of having her underneath him again was overtaking all rational thought.
Meeting “The Babe” had been freaking inconvenient.
Regret filled him as he got up and stepped into the shower. He didn’t even know her name or one thing about her. They had done all the talking with their mouths and bodies. It was the single most erotic experience of his life. His body still zinged from her touch.
He enjoyed the hot shower, the feel of the water against his skin. He knew the next six months of his life were going to be about suffering—sore, burning muscles, being pushed to the limits of his endurance, wet, cold, sandy and miserable.
But remembering her wouldn’t be a hardship and enjoying his body and hers would stay with him for a long time.
He shaved, taking special care with his face, inspecting every inch of his upper lip, chin and neck. Inspection was no joke, and he wasn’t going to get dinged for a bad shave. He ran his hands through his hair. Stepping out of the bathroom, he went to the closet where he’d hung his dark uniform and bent down, giving his dress shoes a quick once over. They were still a glossy black.