“Why are you here?” She kicked out, splashing water at him. She’d liked him better in the dream, probably because she’d been saying sexy, smart stuff rather than staring at him with her mouth hanging open. In response to her complaint, he wrapped a big, warm hand around her ankle and gently tugged her foot to the ground.
“We need to discuss your need for the rough stuff.” Seconds later, a body followed the hand as Gray leaned up on his elbows. The man had no personal boundaries at all, because his world-class swim move put him between her legs and gave him a view of her bikini bottom that neither she nor the suit’s maker had ever intended. She hoped nothing had shifted. God, this was so not how she’d planned her day.
He eyed her prone position on the sand. “Enjoying the beach?”
“Conducting an amphibious assault?” She yanked on her ankle.
His thumb stroked over her ankle. “Not today. This is an assault-free zone.”
Right. Not sure how to interpret that remark, she tried to scoot backward but Gray tugged her forward. He might not be much of a smiler, at least not around her, but there was no denying that he was a handsome bastard. She stared suspiciously at him, but his face gave nothing away.
“Do you ever crack a smile?” She blurted the words out and then flopped back on the sand. Wow. Talk about smooth. He let go of her foot, though, so she inched away. Maybe she could keep going until she hit Miami. Or possibly New York. That might be far enough. Because while he didn’t smile with his mouth, he did plenty of smiling with his eyes. Like now, for instance.
He stared at her for a moment, a dive mask and snorkel pushed back on top of his head. His dive shorty was partially unzipped and of course her eyes went straight to the vee of exposed chest. It wasn’t her fault that he was running around half-naked and wet.
“Move,” she ordered. There was only so much awkwardness and worrying about her bikini line she could take.
“You need to learn how to relax, sweetheart.” He stood up, waded out of the surf as if the tank strapped to his back was a featherweight, and holy hotness...his wet suit molded itself to every inch of him. And he had plenty of inches. His crotch was now on a level with her face.
“You’re staring.” Amusement colored his voice. He shrugged off the tank, dropping it onto the sand.
The drinks menu popped right back into her head as she stared at him, a list of erotic fantasies running through her mind on a decadent loop. Pick one. Pick them all. It was like opening a box of chocolates and, even though you knew you shouldn’t, you were tempted to choose your favorites before someone else came along and ate them. Gray was tough and hard with a side of wild. He wasn’t the kind of man you could tame. She’d stitched up his less honorable brethren in the ER chute, tagged and bagged them when they’d been picked off in drive-bys, and had close encounters with large-caliber guns fired too close and too fast. If those males were trouble, Gray was trouble of a different sort. He was disciplined, controlled, lethal. She hadn’t seen him coming, in more ways than one. He might be working as a masseuse now, but she’d bet her last dollar it was a recent career change. She understood wanting to reinvent yourself, but his body gave him away, a roadmap of where he’d been. The puckered three-inch scar on his right forearm was a parting gift from a knife. The cut had been deep, but stitched professionally. The thin line on the side of his jaw, however, had been left to heal on its own. He also had a bullet scar in his right calf, with two small puckered entrance and exit points from a close encounter with a large-caliber handgun.
When he dropped down onto the sand beside her, she went on the defensive. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
She knew she was being rude, but he simply gave her another crooked half smile. “I didn’t realize the bay was off-limits to the hired help.”
She eyed him again. Yep. He was still mostly naked and all wet. The parts exposed by the shorty were chiseled perfection. He tossed his snorkel and mask up behind him onto the sand and then tugged the zipper of the wet suit down farther. Yes, please.
Then he went in for the kill. “Besides, we’re seeing each other now on a regular basis, so you’d better not stand me up.”
She gaped before recovering. “I’m not late.” Yet.
He leaned back on his elbows, his arms brushing hers. Was the casual touch intentional? She had no idea, but the move pulled the edges of his wet suit farther apart. That was definitely a bullet scar on his left shoulder.
“How’d you get that?” She reached out instinctively, running her fingers over the scar. The skin was rough and slightly raised beneath her fingertips. Okay. Her feelings at the moment were completely unprofessional. She could admit it.