Nope. She was definitely in no condition for a massage. “I’m wet.”
“You’ll dry.” He didn’t look concerned.
But spa etiquette said she was supposed to shower beforehand. She’d read the rules. Of course, she was also pretty damn sure he was no career spa tech. Plus, he was a lousy hotel employee. He had no personal boundaries, and he hadn’t tried to upsell her once on his services.
He pointed to the towel hut by the pool. “Problem solved.”
She just bet. Still, a towel wasn’t a bad idea. Her bikini was nowhere near enough fabric between her and Gray.
“Stay here,” she ordered and brushed past him to approach the counter. To her surprise, he did.
The guy staffing the towel hut wore the loose linen pants and shirt that was the staff uniform. He wasn’t as big as Gray, but there was no mistaking the same kind of ripped muscles. Fantasy Island clearly believed in stocking up on the eye candy. The Pool Boy model apparently came standard issue with hazel eyes and dark blond hair growing out of a buzz cut. He watched her approach, a big grin stretching his face. He was the kind of guy you found yourself smiling back at, even if she had just objectified him in her head. Since even wonder boy behind the counter couldn’t read minds, she cut herself some slack on that one.
“A towel, please,” she said, stepping up to the counter.
He grinned again. “You can have whatever you want, sugar.”
Uh-huh. He was trouble, too. He might not have been as hot as her masseuse, but he was still a pretty impressive specimen. Muscled, with that air of awareness that said he’d be in motion, doing stuff, if there was threat. Probably while the rest of them were still gaping. He and Gray had that in common. Also, like Gray, he came accessorized with bullet scars, one through the palm of his hand and another on his forearm. “I want a towel. Levi.” She read his name off his tag. God, even his name was cute. Don’t smile. She knew his type. Give him an inch and he’d think he could have her panties off her faster than she could lick her lips.
“Nothing else...for now?” When she shook her head, he reached beneath the counter and grabbed a towel. A third scar from what appeared to be a .22 caliber bullet snaked across the back of his hand in a jagged line. His eyes followed hers, and he shifted his injured hand beneath the towel.
“Where did you serve?” Her inner doctor kicked in. Based on the extensive scarring, she’d guess field dressing.
He gave her yet another flirtatious grin. Defensive maneuver. “Right here, waiting for you.”
She rolled her eyes. Did he really think that kind of cheesy line would work on her? Still, his scars were none of her business. She took the towel and retreated to where Gray waited for her by the side of the pool.
“Are battle scars a job prerequisite around here?”
He was back to being poker-faced. “Do you have a soldier fantasy?”
Damn it. She hated blushing. So what if she’d daydreamed once or twice about welcoming her man home? It was none of Gray’s business. Deflect.
“I’m a trauma surgeon, and I’ve staffed the ER. Patients don’t always tell the truth about how they got injured. My patients lied about everything and anything.”
“Maybe you asked too many questions. Maybe the towel boy’s embarrassed about how he got injured.” His hand cupped her elbow, guiding her toward a massage cabana, a heavy weight against her skin. Sure. Confident. Would he position her that effortlessly in bed?
“How do you know how he got injured?”
He gave her a look. “Guys talk.”
“You mean you swap fishing stories. War stories. Who has the biggest dick. Etcetera. Oh, and just FYI...whatever he told you, it’s likely exaggerated. All guys do it.”
He pulled aside the curtain hanging over the door to the cabana. “Inside.”
Uh-oh. She probably shouldn’t have mentioned the size of his penis. Or thought about soldier fantasies. “Is it safe to be alone with you?”
The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Yes, but I exaggerate.”
* * *
“DOES EVERYONE LIE to you?” Gray snapped open the towel while he waited for Laney’s answer. Still warm from the laundry, the high-end cotton smelled like some kind of flower. It was a good smell, way nicer than what he usually encountered in the field. There were definite perks to going undercover at a resort. While she’d grabbed towels from Levi, he’d detoured briefly to strip out of his wet suit and into the spa uniform. He had no idea how the real masseuse handled spending his days in white linen. The stuff wrinkled and was hell on the tough-guy image.
She didn’t take the hint to lie down, standing in the center of the massage cabana, chewing on her bottom lip. Since he estimated she was ten seconds from bolting, the towel he wrapped around her was excellent insurance. Maybe he could trade the cotton in for some nice ropes. Or silk ties. He’d bet she’d enjoy the slide of silk against her skin, the gentle tug whenever she moved reminding her that she’d given control to him. He’d enjoy it, too.