Falling for the Enemy (Private Pleasures 3)

The teen gave him an irritated look but handed it over. “It’s an iPhone, dumbass. Didn’t they have those in the SEALs?”

He dropped the sleek device to the floor and stomped it under his heel. The screen shattered.

“Hey, you freak, what the fuck—?”

“Now it’s a piece of garbage. If I see you speeding through town again, the car is my next target. Got that, dumbass?”

“You’re bat-shit crazy. I’m telling Dad.”

“Go ahead. Be sure to mention the part where you almost killed someone while you were texting and driving. Bet he buys you a new phone right about the time hell freezes over.”

Dark eyes disconcertingly similar to his own burned with pure, unadulterated hate, and the kid’s hands tightened into fists. Part of him hoped his little brother would go ahead and take a swing, because as far as he could tell the kid needed an ass-kicking, but dishing one out meant sticking around for a bunch of physical and emotional cleanup he preferred to avoid. So he dished out his version of cautionary advice instead. “Thinking about banging heads with me? Think about this. I’m taller, I’m heavier, and I’m trained to drop a guy twice your size. I can grind you under my boot just like this”—he kicked the battered phone so it slid to a stop by the toe of Justin’s two-hundred-dollar athletic shoes—“without breaking stride.”

The anger had to go somewhere, so Justin swung his foot and kicked the phone into the baseboard, where it landed with a thud and a shower of parts. “You suck.” He turned and stormed up the central staircase. “Go back to Afghanistan, or Pakistan, or whatever shithole you came from, and stay there this time.”

“Aw, you’ve hurt my feelings.” Petty, but for some reason he couldn’t resist having the last word. He was dead tired, still pissed, and, frankly, they’d never been close. He’d been ten when his parents had split. With the ink barely dry on the divorce decree, Tom had turned around and married Monica. She’d been such a bitch on wheels Shaun had gladly escaped to military school a couple years later when Justin came along.

A combination of choice and circumstances—including four years at Annapolis and six years with the SEALs—had kept him away pretty consistently since then. Despite the lack of brotherly bonds, he harbored some sympathy for the kid. Or at least not complete apathy, he silently corrected as he returned to his car. Monica had moved to Atlanta without a backward glance. According to their father, she couldn’t be bothered to do more than send an occasional text to Justin.

He steered the car back the way he’d come and thought about the other half of the parental equation—their father. Tom Buchanan loved his sons…in his own distracted, dysfunctional way. His parenting te

chnique swung between benign neglect and attempts to overcompensate for his lack of attention by doing favors and purchasing affection. No surprise Justin had turned out spoiled and self-centered. Life with Mommy and Daddy had taught him to put his needs and desires first, or nobody would. Not your problem, a weary voice in his head interjected. You’ve got plenty of your own.

A left turn onto Main brought the salon into sight for the second time, and a few personal needs and desires pushed to the forefront of his mind. They centered around the woman he’d held in his arms less than an hour ago, her body pressed so close he could still feel the imprint of tight, toned curves in some very key places. The citrus-y scent of her perfume, or shampoo, or whatever it was, still flirted with his senses—something as distinct and teasingly sexy as the rest of her. Her soft, shuddery moan reverberated in his memory and fueled all sorts of highly entertaining and incredibly inadvisable thoughts.

Her words replayed in his brain as he drove past the shop. I owe you a haircut.

Without meaning to, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Dark hair fell across his forehead, nearly to his eyes. His pulse kicked up at the thought of taking her up on her offer.

If he was smart, he’d go to Lexington for a haircut. Or Darfur. Or Mars. Any of those would be less risky. Hell, he’d cut it himself. He was taking care of all his other personal needs these days. Why break tradition? Especially not with a sultry salon owner he could too easily imagine giving him much more than a trim.

Chapter Two

Ginny flipped her sign to Closed and pulled the string to lower the bamboo blinds shielding the large, street-facing window of her salon. A glance through the glass sent a prickling sensation down her bare arms as tiny hairs stood at attention. There he was—Wolverine—standing at the curb, about to enter the crosswalk. Dusk had fallen in the time necessary to turn dark-haired Dilly Hill into a summer blonde, but the waning light didn’t matter. Nor did the fact that he wasn’t facing her. She recognized him by sheer size, shape, and the disciplined stillness with which he held himself.

He’d invaded her subconscious every night in the weeks since he’d saved her ass, interrupting her ordinary fare of “winning the lottery” and “forgetting to study for the Geometry final” dreams with erotic, naked adventures. The kind of adventures she awoke from all itchy and achy…and alone. She and her pillow had gotten unusually close, because a woman on a self-imposed sex hiatus had to take matters into her own hands. Talented as they were, her hands couldn’t conjure up the heat and tension of his body pressed against hers. They couldn’t recreate the thump of his heart or the weight of his strong arms wrapped around her. Imagination only got her so far, and she was quickly learning when it came to certain things, “so far” wasn’t nearly far enough.

Without thinking, she rapped the glass with her knuckle. If the sudden noise startled him, he controlled all outward tells. No jolt. No searching around for the source of the sound. He simply turned his head and zeroed in on her like he’d sensed her presence the entire time. She hurried to the door and pushed it open. “What are you doing right now?”

His clothes suggested nothing fancy. Wash-faded jeans showed off long, powerful legs and molded to an indecently perfect ass, while the plain, black T-shirt fit snug over biceps she wanted to sink her teeth into. Clearly not a man headed out for a night on the town, but he stayed silent for long enough to make her wonder if he planned to answer. She arched a brow and leaned against the door, sending him a silent “I can keep this stand-off going all night” message. She flexed her toes inside her unlaced, low-top Chucks and briefly wished for heels to lend her some height and authority, but spending all day on her feet had taught her to wear comfy shoes on the job. She’d just have to think tall and channel authority.

Maybe it worked, or maybe he was just the world’s slowest conversationalist, but he replied, “Nothing.”

His shuttered expression offered no nuance to the single-word response. Ditto for his body language—not so much as a head shake. Fine and dandy. Let him do his badass, stoic thing. It took more than that to intimidate her. “You saved my life. The least I can do is give you a shave and a haircut.”

The stoic expression slipped and his dark eyes became a war zone of conflicting emotions. Desire, (she hadn’t been on her hiatus so long she didn’t recognize that particular look), reluctance, and something indefinable she might have called panic on anyone else. He looked away, rasped his palm over his whiskered jaw, and when he faced her again, he had his give-nothing-away look firmly in place. “Okay. Thank you.”

Three words in a row. New record. “No, no. This is me thanking you,” she shot back as she held the door open with one arm and stepped aside to allow him to enter. His shoulder brushed against her chest when he squeezed past. The completely innocent contact sent not-so-innocent heat zinging through her, firing up nerve endings until even her toes tingled. For one disorienting moment she flashed back to the memory of having his tall, sturdy frame supporting her. He turned to her and cocked a brow, as if awaiting instructions, but a distinctly knowing look lurked in his eyes. Heat reversed course and stormed into her face.

Hold the phones, girl, you make people blush, not vice versa.

“Have—” Geez, was that crackling noise her voice? She cleared her throat and tried again. “Have a seat there.” She pointed through her small lobby to the adjustable-height swivel chair in front of her workstation. “I’ll be right over.”

He nodded and walked to the chair. She flicked on more lights and finished lowering the blinds. It might have been smarter to leave them up, because her little salon suddenly seemed even smaller, but it was dark outside and she disliked working in a fishbowl.

To combat the intimacy, she detoured to the counter separating the waiting area from the main salon and turned on the radio. Bruno Mars filled the silence, crooning about sex and paradise. So much better. She turned the volume low and headed to the rinse sink at the back of her salon. Once there, she turned on the hot water and pulled a hand towel from the stack on the shelf beside the sink. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him stare at his reflection in her workstation mirror. No. Correction. He tracked her movements in the mirror. As she tested the temperature of the water, she became intensely aware of the band of exposed skin below the hem of her red tank top and above the hip-riding waist of her denim skirt. Was she flashing him a whale-tail? Awesome. She thrust the towel into the water. Nothing screamed “classy” like the back of her thong peeking out over the top of her skirt. She turned off the tap, tugged her tank down, and wrung the excess water from the towel. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Ginny.”

“Short for Jennifer?”