Compromising Her Position (Compromise Me 1)

Conscience won out, eventually, and he squeezed her hand. Behind her mask, her eyes opened and rounded as she watched the sharks swim off. He pointed his finger skyward and lifted his brows.

She nodded and started kicking. He let her glide through his arms and, a decompression stop later, they were safely on deck.

“Oh my God. That was…”

“Thrilling? Amazing?” He helped her out of her harness and stacked their cylinders and equipment in the designated area.

She turned around and smacked his shoulder. “Terrifying!”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re gorgeous when you’re terrified?”

She hit him again, but he saw her lip twitch. “When you’re scared and wet and clinging to me,” he continued in a low voice, crowding her against the railing with his body. “Come on, confess. You found the dive exciting.” He sure as hell had, less due to the sharks than her in little black bikini bottoms that cupped her ass like a candy wrapper, and a long-sleeved black swim shirt that might as well have been painted on. The way it clung to her breasts completely fucked with his concentration. Or maybe his fucked concentration had more to do with the fact that those breasts currently heaved with agitation?

He glanced at her face and revised his conclusion. Not agitation. No, she’d seen him looking her over and read his mind. He leaned closer, let his chest brush her breasts. “I’m guessing yes, because you seem a little excited.”

She inhaled sharply. He loved her instant, unguarded responses. There was nothing contrived about Chelsea. Placing his fingers against the base of her throat, he went on. “Your pulse is racing. Your pupils are huge. I’d have to say you’re excited.”

“I’ve never come so close to anything dangerous before. Other than you.”

“I’m harmless.”

“You’re lethal,” she said softly, but he barely heard her because he was too distracted by the way she ran her tongue over her lower lip. He couldn’t take his eyes away.

“You like it.” He brushed his thumb along her damp lip.

Just then chatter and laughter sailed across the deck, signaling the arrival topside of other members of the dive party. Tactical blunder. He should have known better than to trap them on a boat with a bunch of strangers and absolutely no privacy. “I’ll prove it to you. Later,” he whispered and, with reluctance, dropped his hand.

She glanced over at the ladders, where other divers now climbed aboard, then back at him. “Maybe I’ll prove a few things to you as well, Mr. St. Sebastian.” With that, she turned and strolled away.

Excitement over the shark sighting infected the entire group. In his experience, a day of diving bonded virtual strangers with an instant, intense shared experience, and that was especially true when it came to shark encounters. It left everyone euphoric and festive. With the day’s dives completed, the crew opened the bar, turned on the music, and the dive boat transformed into a party boat for the cruise to the dock.

Hanging back, nursing an ice-cold beer, he watched Chelsea circulate amongst the passengers. They were all Tradewinds guests, mostly under forty, but still a diverse group.

Her energy, ready smile, and easy friendliness attracted people. She chatted with everyone, from the girls-getaway group of New York City thirty-somethings to the trio of Seattle-based software engineers who clearly hadn’t seen the sun in at least six months.

One of them handed her a beer. While she smiled and thanked him, the man’s eyes roamed over her, and Rafe battled a territorial urge to stride across the deck and drag her away.

What was that about? He didn’t get possessive about women. He could try to justify the uncharacteristic instinct on the basis of their arrangement. During this week—his week, damn it—he required her undivided attention. But that was business, and this feeling was unquestionably personal. Worse, spending time with her only intensified his desire, and transformed it into something complicated and less centered on physical need. Time was running out. What did he plan to do about it?

Nothing. You’ll enjoy tonight, fly back to L.A., complete the deal.

Completing the deal could take four more weeks.

But you won’t have time to spend any of them back here. The Las Ventanas re-launch has to stay on track.

After the close…

You’ll be her boss once the deal goes through. She’s got rules.

Be persuasive. Convince her to make an exception for you.

Right. She’s going to agree to what she views as a career-endangering exception for the thrill of a hookup whenever you come through on business? Think you’re that persuasive? Here’s how this plays out. You leave, the deal closes, and you finally get what you’ve been striving for since the time you were old enough to answer the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” She stays, meets a stable, decent guy, and lives happily ever after. She’s a smile on your face when you’re ninety and a big-eyed, dark-haired nurse comes in to check your blood pressure.

He watched his future favorite memory laugh at something one of the pasty perverts said. His blood pressure spiked and he had to force himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on his beer. Her twinkling gaze collided with his and held. Her smile faltered. Pink invaded her cheeks. After a moment, she took a long drink, licked her lower lip, and turned back to her conversation. Shit. He rubbed his palm over the center of his chest, where an uncomfortable tightness lodged.

You’re in worse shape now than when you landed five days ago.

Jan. 11