Levi had laughed his ass off. Of course, the man had also been quick to steal leftovers, too, so Mason’s cakes clearly hadn’t been the worst idea ever. Somehow, somewhere, he’d metamorphosed into Military Martha Stewart, worried about how his batter had come out and if Maddie would approve.
Bottom line? He had it bad.
Granted, getting close to her was a mission requirement, but she didn’t know that. All this getting-to-know-you crap had been genuine on her part. She’d decided that he might qualify as dating material and now she was performing her due diligence on his personality and bona fides with the same enthusiasm she approached everything else.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Maddie didn’t hide what she was feeling. She just enjoyed and went for it. The girl didn’t hold back sexually, either, which meant it didn’t take too much imagination at all for him to mentally transfer Maddie’s enthusiasm to the bedroom. She’d rock his world if he was lucky enough to get the chance. Putting her back together after he’d gotten her off yesterday had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He’d wanted to scoop her up, carry her off to somewhere with a bed and crawl in with her for hours. Days. As long as she’d have him.
God help him if she ever figured out why he was really on Fantasy Island, because she’d kill him. He knew without asking that Maddie had a zero-tolerance policy on lying, and sins of omission would count every bit as much as the real whoppers. So he’d make sure she didn’t find out. He was a trained professional. He’d successfully conducted hundreds of covert missions.
And...no amount of training or hands-on experience in the field could fix the basic problem. He wasn’t acting when he was around Maddie. She knew that he was interested and, hooyah, his interest was genuine. His perpetual erection when he was around her had to be one of his worst-kept secrets ever. The kissing and the touching didn’t help in the keeping-things-under-control department, either. But he felt as if he was negotiating under false pretenses. In another time, another place, he’d have happily gone after her, but here on Fantasy Island, sticking closer than close to her was essential for her safety. The recon team still hadn’t confirmed Santiago’s presence in the jungle compound, which meant the bastard could potentially be anywhere. Money also bought loyalty and guns. A Marcos bodyguard or a hired mercenary could easily slip onto the island, so that meant Mason stayed nearby.
Practically glued skin to skin with the sexy, gorgeous, uninhibited Maddie.
He picked up speed, but outrunning Maddie’s charms wasn’t a matter of pacing. It was already hot and humid, his T-shirt sticking to him as he began the upward climb. He’d turn around at the lookout, head back to the resort and relieve Levi. Levi had Maddie watch until Mason tagged back in, so she was in good hands.
Exhaustion tugged at him. He’d survived on less sleep, but banking some hours was wise. Pulling an all-nighter would be easier if he wasn’t already sleep deprived. Suck it up, sailor. He checked the dive watch strapped to his wrist, already knowing that his pace was too slow. He pushed harder, his head clearing as his blood got pumping. Failure simply wasn’t an option.
When he reached the top of the hill, he did a quick check, but Maddie either hadn’t sneaked any more cameras up here or she’d gotten a whole lot more strategic at placing them. It was just him, some palm trees and an enormous round lounger thing with cushions and a little canopy for shade. He stopped and stretched, working out the tension in his back. Blue lagoon spread out before him, stretching to the reef and beyond. Maddie had rocked a blue, fringed bikini the other day that was just that kind of peacock color.
And, wait for it... His erection tented his pants, right on cue.
He’d walked by the pool yesterday. Taken in the cabana scene. Looked again because, damn, the itty-bitty bikini had almost not covered Maddie’s stunning curves and he’d wanted to run his fingers over all that lush, tempting skin. Then she’d bent over, rummaging in an enormous beach bag for something, and his brain had completely short-circuited. The Brazilian swimsuit bottom absolutely, positively failed to cover her ass. He’d fought the urge to cup those naughty curves in his palms. The bottom of her suit had a wicked seam that ran up her butt, kind of like an X-marks-the-spot.
He’d stood there like a different kind of ass. For several very long, heated moments. Then she’d busted him with a wicked grin.
“Tell me if you spot a tan line.”